---

i would like to write a poem

this is the moment before we die,

our infinite terminal lucidity,

thanking the doctor for our high,

in glitching but persistent reality.

still though dirty hands define me,

burns and bruises for a little money,

cravings simple as tea with honey.

no more paths for the vagabond,

plenty of benches for the homeless,

nature appeals our fragile bond,

while we invent simulated closeness.

yet here we are through all of this—

this macroscopic spiritual mitosis—

again two roads diverge in forest,

splitting us apart but everyone fits.

i follow the light— call it optimism,

call it trapped deep in my childhood,

write my story but call it journalism,

and pretend i lived like a child should.

dream of the yard with an old dogwood,

not the weight of being misunderstood,

do they love you more than your family could?

you can still build fairy homes with sticks,

a little mud will hold everything together,

and when the memory fades they’ll insist

it’s better to feel than actually remember.

now the present is too pretty to unwrap,

so we regift it each and every holiday,

because monday to friday is for our collapse,

and true joy is scheduled and on the way.

here is the end of the poem’s resolution,

pretty lines to provoke feelings wholesome,

since of course we know what the truth is,

it’s the moment we want to write a poem.

✰

last night

before anything else, you are a plot device. 

you are that person at that party, 

maybe nameless but memorable nonetheless. 

they will talk about you less and less as the days go on, 

as their plot orbits newer story lines. 

eventually, you may cease to exist completely. 

this is a tragic thought. 

it will make you feel like a half full red solo cup,

it will remind you of the last time you saw your father.

the cameras may be filming a continuous shot

but you are not linear,

so you’ll slip out of frame before you’ve said your line.

even though you have work tomorrow.

even though you’ll call out anyways,

just to bathe in your nonexistence,

just to put your life off for five more minutes.

you’ll forget about all the things you have to worry about,

after enough sunrises pass anyways,

when the night drizzle has washed the trip off your car

and you can’t even remember the miles you’ve driven so far.

the air will smell like yesterday and tomorrow,

and you’ll remind yourself that everything is okay

before you start the car.

dreams will rewrite the scenes you barely remember,

so when you get home from your first day back in reality

you’ll try to figure out if the walls were yellow or green,

and who kissed who again?

the details matter least of all, much less so than the feeling,

but when all you feel is the ache you’ll get what you can take.

filled with three shots of vodka and enough smoke to set you on fire,

you will recount how the night conspired,

is this what you imagined when you waited for your life to begin?

you, alone in your bed at 3am, years ago when the world was big,

it will haunt you when you try to live up to your own expectations.

the air gets colder and the leaves get prettier,

which makes you miss yourself like you miss your brother or sister,

talking to your mirror saying i’ve watched you grown up all this time

and you’re not exactly who i thought you’d be.

god, i wish i knew what i was feeling.

when the act of being is so overwhelming,

just add lemon to your water and try to remember

the unfolding is how you become yourself.

an origami bird set in water melts, but at least it’s not creased,

at least the prison of form and shape can cease.

the days that follow feel so lonely and yet it’s delightful,

the way the solitude actualizes you.

it turns out you’re even more real in your own point of view,

but you don’t mind if people write you all wrong,

as long as they write about you at all.

✰

you know what’s funnier than 23? 24

they say that i am twenty-four,

but i am confidently no more than fourteen,

even as i nurture a bottle of wine, and

even when i pay my bills, i am only pretending,

they say that i have plenty of time,

and perhaps i genuinely believe this is true,

even the hours i do not use for myself, and

even the hours i do.

i daydream about my first wrinkles and sprouts of gray hair,

what it means to wear away, a pile of sand and a gust of wind, 

a waning desire to begin again, a soul that ages like skin.

i beam in the revelation that sunsets and sunrises are the same event,

some call them, “the way it is,” and some call them, “heaven sent,”

and i am with the latter, as if these are the important factors.

they say that i am kind,

and i say, “thank you, i try,”

and the flowers sprout beside the gravestones outside.

in the bathroom stall of an old bar i become one with

r+c=<3, angela & christy bffs ’97, and an anonymous hater of sluts,

these are my friends and i miss them very much,

maybe i will think of them in the years to come,

don’t you remember how we were in the same place at very different times?

don’t you remember how, even without meeting, even without my name or face,

you still thought of me? i thought of you, 

with more detail and compassion that i feel for a past lover,

nothing is sweeter than never knowing how sweet it could’ve been.

they say that i am getting carried away,

and i say, “i am trying my best,”

they say okay and let go of the rest.

✰

at a bar in ohio

the moon is in this or that, i don’t care anymore i’m drunk,

the earth has aged two decades since i’ve tasted the density of dirt,

do you think my friends would mind if i enjoyed a mouthful?

in my head, all conversations would stop, even the music, and in my head,

they’d all turn around and whisper something like, “have you ever seen anyone do that?”

they’d say they hadn’t, and the repulsion would turn into admiration,

and my grief would be so pretty.

no one cares if you slip your fingers between the cracks of the moist earth,

no, no one turns around if you rub it against your lips, 

like self-care or self-love, before you take a bite.

so i never take a bite, just turn my attention to a distant spot, a hazy nothingness,

the collection of energy and atoms vibrating beside a television or stage,

and i look so normal looking at it.

they must think, they look so normal, although they aren’t at all,

but i like to think so. i certainly like to think so.

are you enjoying me enjoying things? 

claire says the guy two tables over is something beautiful,

so i tell claire she’s not real just a figment of my imagination,

so she stops talking about boys, thank god. and thank god for another drink.

the problem is i like shots and beers and wine and all of it really,

the problem is i’m a witch but the only cauldron brewing is inside of me,

and the consequences are so much worse and cursed and infinitely dispersed,

the problem is i want to rhyme but i really don’t have the time,

because i have a lot to say and i can’t say it my way if it’s always pretty,

pretty. a word that means less and less to me. pretty,

like my affinity for a tree as i wade through the summer breeze,

an event that eludes me when i’m drunk in the morning around three.

eventually i remember you don’t have to rhyme to catch someone’s attention,

i have negated claire’s existence but infinite versions of her now listen,

to the sound of me drowning during my first and only baptism,

i was eight and they told me i had no time to waste or i’d miss my place,

as if divinity was a rollercoaster ride and i’ve just been waiting in line,

despite the fact that truthfully, i’d let you cut me, i’m really in no rush, and

after all these thoughts i’m still drunk, surrounded by women i met before but also tonight,

would it be alright? if i kneeled on the ground to say a prayer,

but instead stuck my hands in the mud and coated myself in yet another layer.

✰

drunk (alone)

I like to get drunk alone. 

Sitting at my desk,           studying an array of tools. 

Together,        they will help me say something. 

Paint chips off the desk as I move things around, 

over and over and over again. 

Eventually they will help me say something. 

Without a doubt,       the time will come 

when I have the same revelation I always do. 

Perhaps the first step to saying something is hearing something. 

I pry open my laptop,       watch as my fingers unintentionally dust the screen. 

Sometimes I wonder if this is a useless tool, 

and how privileged I am to wonder if a computer is a useless tool. 

How often I neglect the infinite possible arrangements of words I could come up with, 

if I were brave enough to come up with them. 

How easily I could know something I had not known before. 

No,    I bought this laptop for a job I don’t have anymore and an education I don’t earn anymore. 

I wonder how often the words useless and neglected 

look at one another wondering if they’re a reflection.

Now I’m drunk and alone. 

It doesn’t take much. 

Some divine combination of subconscious desire and voluntary hunger. 

As though written in the script, 

there always comes a point when I feel the aching unknown of being known. 

In this case,           it starts with staring deep into the camera. 

Eventually,           I will rip an ungodly amount of tape to cover it, 

but first I must show them that I am god. 

I’ve never been good at staring contests but this is the one I always win. 

My eyes,       unblinking,        truly focused; 

perhaps it is the first time all day I am in the present moment. 

Except that I am drunk. 

Then I smile,            the kind of smile that drives you directly through the uncanny valley. 

It works perfectly because I’m human. 

Really, I swear that I am. 

Then the tape. 

It took me years to realize I could just always have the camera covered.

✰

odd fates

singing to myself during a monotonous task,

lowering my volume when anyone walks past,

and the moon is on the other side of the glass.

i can feel her but the sun is staring into the sea,

a vintage portrait of who people pretend to be,

pacing around with the most profound apathy.

i am out of my element but i will tell you this,

in life i wade through water like an aquarius,

each moment a poem rather than a grocery list.

sure, i still vacuum, cook, and wash my face,

allowing monotony to embrace how my ego inflates,

sixth house moon and some other odd fates.

my favorite place is my room so i hurry home,

the sweet indifference of disassociating alone,

it will always be 4:44pm when i open my phone.

perhaps this means i am chosen?

a purpose beyond being frozen?

how long would it take for me to thaw?

in reality it means the wound is raw,

and the weight of the pain is too much to haul.

so i write about my day and call it a night,

there’s enough to say but it never sounds right.

hey it’s me again and this person is learning

how to begin and have dreams so determined

without distractions or fear of being uncertain

so i was wondering if i could have courage on a whim.

✰

taurus sun, aquarius moon

it begins as a swelling sensation within,

they say it is romance and sometimes sin,

a blossoming ache soon gone with the wind.

they say they’ll return whatever you can lend,

though you cannot offer anything they imagined,

not the obedience or the loyalty or the unfathomed.

eating girls with forks and knives, a delicious chasm,

digging a hole in the earth to drop a dying siren,

unaware that the irony will one day find them.

they say they know beauty beneath an empty grin,

destroying any means necessary to achieve the end,

knowing when its over they will only crave again.

though mother nature knows the weight of a woman,

she is sometimes hardened and sometimes molten,

the softness of her flesh a spell to get lost in.

within her an energy so great she can only enlighten,

all the lost souls whose hunger confines them,

knowing the power beneath her human skin.

this is how the story ends: a girl begins to win,

an achievement imagined by every single human,

a reality that exists beyond the physical prison.

this is your life and this is your mission.

✰

eager

I’d hate for anyone to think of me as eager. 

To see in disgusting authenticity how I yearn for their affection. 

The thought alone makes me crave five beers on an empty stomach. 

It always comes out more desperate than I mean for it to. 

Or at least, I assume others see it that way. 

I jump at every moment of relatability, filled with an immature glee. 

Oh to be understood.

And I am, of course. 

It’s not wrong to feel understood in that moment, but I forget completely about the dreadful silence. 

How long it sounds. 

My words are always too excited; they always echo a moment too long. 

My heart is racing with joy and then, like that, something else. 

Something terrifyingly else.

This never happens when I’m alone. 

I think that at every bar and party I go to. 

I would never feel so cut to the bone in my own home. 

How I miss the one-hundred thirty-two square foot simulation I work daily to keep running.

Why would I ever leave anyways? 

It takes most hours of the week just to have it in the first place. 

Hours of projection from strangers, wherein I am the best or worst person they’ve ever met.

One customer tells me I am their only friend, the next wishes the worst for me. 

For just enough money per hour to run my tiny simulation, I allow myself to be whatever others decide I am.

By the time I return to my sanctuary, why would I leave? 

Why would I spend what’s left of my earnings on poison and passion? 

Somewhere in my area, anyway, is a person who needs a few extra bucks. 

I would pay someone an hour of my work to bring me my groceries. 

And what will I do with the time I’ve saved? 

Take the second or third shower of the day, perhaps. 

Stand as still as I can. 

Whatever the night needs. 

It will always be worth the money.

I can never be too eager in my own presence. 

All the thoughts and feelings, though strung through the light of my smoke, can be what they are and never what they are not. 

God, I feel free when I am alone. 

I know what I like and what I don’t. 

I can change the song or the movie, stop it altogether if my legs derive some divine energy. 

I’ll walk around my room in circles just to feel my thoughts in my body.

I remember when this all felt so far away. 

When I didn’t know how to pretend yet; to not be myself, to not be eager. 

It was inevitable. 

I remember wishing to be sixteen so I could drive a car. 

Today I took deep breaths to avoid the road rage. 

I remember wishing to be eighteen so I could start college. 

Today I wondered if I’d ever go back to school. 

I remember wishing I was twenty-one so I could get drunk. 

Today I wonder if any drink has ever been worth it.

In spite of this, here I am. 

Bright eyed. 

Looking at my future with the same romance. 

I wish I was thirty, or maybe forty-two, or perhaps sixty-three. 

I wish that any of the things I wished to be would ever be me. 

Instead I am always meeting someone I never expected. 

And I am always trying to tell them the story of how we got here. 

And they are always so, so eager.

✰

sober now

in the clarity of sobriety i found a piece of me,

sculpting my identity in the face of adversity,

because reality became something i took too personally,

forgetting to smell the flowers and let the bees roam free.

all things bloom in their own time,

there is no escape from a self-hate crime,

that is drinking, smoking, and telling a lie,

reassuring loved ones that everything’s fine,

but if i want the world i just have to make it mine.

i know i can because the light that shines from me is golden,

growing brighter when i let go of the pain that i’m holdin,

and as an artist this experience is thought provoking,

what’s a better muse than the healing of someone broken?

maybe not broken just looking through a new lens,

when you’re not sober you’re afraid of what ends,

a paint stroke clear-minded is an act that mends,

and finally i’ve started calling my friends.

i say i’m sorry i’ve been gone for a while,

my short walk down this path ended up being miles,

and predictable or not i still went through those trials,

because the most dangerous place to be is in denial.

i swore i’d learn how to have a healthy relationship,

i thought i could get drunk if my intentions were adequate,

but the only healthy choice is deciding to quit,

and when you choose yourself you have to commit.

the love for yourself becomes an undeniable force,

nevermind your recent metaphysical divorce,

from all that does not serve your life’s true course.

✰

summer again

let’s speak more of half-clothed, curtain-closed summer days.

plastic imitating flowers on our dollar store leis

we wear during our vodka lemonade on a monday phase.

if we didn’t have jobs we’d forget all our names

trade them instead for only temporary stays

in places others call home on winter days.

let’s speak more of the dreams we encounter during naps,

the drinks we consume during sociable laps

around the city which really only lacks

that dreaminess we chase when we sleep like cats.

summer is my favorite flavor

of love, passion, and human behavior,

the way we dance like it is our savior,

the way we no longer consider what happens later.

there is only the now and a sprinkle of how.

there is an uneven pair of shoes in the lost and found

from being barefoot every time we go out.

i remember telling you i love you untruthfully,

by the pond down the path where the tadpoles roam free.

i remember my condensating beer and obvious fear

while i told you something you wanted to hear.

it always seemed like love in the passenger seat,

i held our takeout on my lap nice and neat,

thinking if there aren’t any rules you cannot cheat.

summer loves sweat-loving nats in the same regard,

without one another life wouldn’t be hard.

your dad is setting up a garage sale in your yard,

your mom is signing your name on the father’s day card.

we’re used to counting summers because of grade school,

here’s three months to change and return more cool.

the sun should tan your skin and freckle your face,

if you didn’t kiss anyone you’re another year too late.

eventually though we’re not in school anymore,

now we’re hungover at 11am on the bathroom floor,

wondering why we ever asked for more.

in the summer, this is all we need:

two hands, some dirt, and a single seed.

planting autumn in our dreams ever since we believed

that during the summer our inner child is freed.

here’s another day but i can’t wait a minute,

here’s a human life to live but i don’t want it,

here’s your bruised knee from the concrete.

if you could choose, where would we meet?

don’t be afraid of the moment,

if you show fear the moment will know it.

consume uncertainty like your favorite iced tea,

light ice, no water, add some lemonade please.

if you feel anxiety ask for what you need.

summer is too short to avoid being happy.

✰

bad habits

i. before

her mind races with traces of the finest chemical creations.

one to release frustrations,

two during social explorations,

and three when desiring revelations.

a world so oblivious of how ego makes us delirious,

the shadow that lives in us controls more than our appearance,

days turn hideous as they mimic a spiritual experience.

in temporary devastation she inhales numbing smoke,

crafted without consideration like a fleeting inside joke,

utilizing self manipulation to forget truths she once spoke.

electric stimulation in a five dollar liquid form

increases attention though her mind is torn

between real intention and a body she can mourn.

this is the decay of adolescence,

as a kid you could count your blessings

but each year removes those lessons

so now you start to second guess this.

don’t look at her gnawed to the cuticle hands,

pretend anything flawed is beauty that expands,

romances stalled when her depression withstands.

old loves and new strangers on the same list,

both have their dangers but the truth rarely fits,

in a universe that drained her of all fear prevents.

now she lives on the dark side of the moon,

passion came too early and hope came too soon,

listening to a song written one beat out of tune.

searching grocery stores for potions brewed to destroy choice,

nightly tours of black magic used to remove her voice,

options she explores until convinced this is what she enjoys.

ii. after

now she time travels to tea parties hosted by herself as a child,

they write love poems with sharpies for old crushes reconciled,

wondering together how these moments evolved to being wild.

a recurring nightmare now she embraces being sober,

decisions made with care gives her two months in october,

now she and the universe a pair always coming closer.

manifestation is cleaning the dusty windowsill for her lover,

finding peace in being present so now they don’t suffer,

moments like these are what kill the illusion of other.

her mind flows with acceptance of the silent inevitability.

one truth comes physically,

two truths inspire her artistically,

and three truths transcend life infinitely.

a being full of nature’s simple but divine mysteries,

in a mirror sharing words always kind reverts histories,

past and present intertwine ensuring future victories.

this is the preservation of growth,

as a kid there was so much to loathe

but each year you recommit an oath 

so now you start acknowledging both.

both the times of before and after,

turning the page to reveal a new chapter

about the moments that truly matter,

present right now they never slip past her,

consuming joy rather than fear thereafter.

✰

a modern astrologer

my first love calls the scars on my body constellations, 

and reads them like an astrologer,

she says scorpio on my thighs indicates

revelations,

but only if i acknowledge her.

pisces consumes my eyes although i’m an aquarius,

gemini in my hands despite being void of it in my chart,

she explains the stars have a way of misleading the best of us,

looking through a telescope i wouldn’t know where to start.

the vocabulary of poets stays darker than the night sky,

apparently the northern lights belong to the critics,

because no one really believes their beautiful lies,

but we all know the truth is found in the analytics.

not sure why people find more value in the pen of old white men,

or in the astrology of christianity when the math is faulty,

god knows modern humanity could use more ancient zen,

but when the yoga studios go out of style there goes the novelty.

my english teacher tells me my poems don’t have rhythm,

she teaches you can’t do what you want until you’re a legend,

i explain structure is the result of an inconvenient system,

and when i die i never aim to go to poetry heaven.

i’d rather be a sinner with my repetition too loose,

i’d rather find my moon in pisces than in aries,

than write stanzas that put my feelings to good use,

than be angry over sad for the weight it carries.

✰

in theory

in theory

we exist in art museums 

with polaroid cameras in our soft hands,

and the guard sees but he understands.

in theory

our hair is wet from the rain outside,

and our damp clothes smell like the seaside.

in theory,

you laugh when i make stupid jokes

about beautiful art,

not knowing the art in this room is something 

of which you’re a part.

in a way,

i struggle not to say, 

that you are the masterpiece.

i am ferris, you are sloane.

we kiss like we’re alone.

in theory,

it did not take me a month to fall in love,

and we don’t spend nights dreaming of

moments we can’t forget

because they haven’t happened yet.

✰

greek goddess

she fills my belly with wine,

that greek goddess,

the one from my new memory.

the new memory 

is from when i was born again,

and people love me like 

i am a child,

and i learn about the world

for the first time, again.

at the time, this all 

meant so much more to me.

scratch the surface of your forehead,

it falls and hits your nose,

that’s your thinking pose,

and from it the world is fed.

good morning to the dreamers

i haven’t met yet,

who cradle their dreams like

the other side of this,

who knows where reality begins

but not where it ends.

you must wear your sweaters

and write your poems

and live like you’re ancient.

✰

who the fuck am i?

“You’re incredible,” they say, You’re my cave and I’ve been hiding out,

but I can’t hear anything anyway. will you tell me a little about yourself?        

Numbers on a license plate,

fuck what they all say

I’ll end up seeing 27 anyway. To know me as hardly golden

is to know me all wrong, they were.

“Oh god, I’m dying, I’m dying,”

I say, sitting alone in my bed,

nothing touching me and everything left unsaid.

What would you do if you had any other choice?

What would you do if the lines in a poem just kept getting longer?

Would it make you uncomfortable to see the world tilt on its side like that?

I can’t look at you too long

or I’ll give you everything I don’t have

or I’ll get a little too happy or a little too sad.

When you find the cassette tape,

when you get to the other side, I’ve been waiting for this silence all night long,

don’t be afraid of what you find. it’s just a matter of time.

No more poems please,

I no longer know how to hide.

✰

all we do is fall in love

all we do is fall in love.

human beings, warm, sleepy, 

drunk on peaches and red grapes and laughter.

all we do is fall in love,

as if there was any other reason for being here.

we try and define unconditional,

the word that slips like soft sand 

through our fingers.

we get woven through 

and in between each other,

upon warmth, beneath sheets,

breathlessly and without 

concern or thought or hope.

we don’t even hope,

we just know.

we fall in love with more than just

those we make eye contact with

on the train, in the supermarket, at the library.

we fall in love with the redwood trees 

when we were three

when we finally learned that we were small.

we fall in love with books

and watches

and rocks we find in rivers.

and other human beings.

it’s the last moment before we sleep,

and the first before we jump,

so that when we fall there is purpose.

you are bravest when you have nothing to hold onto

and everything to live for.

we know that words don’t do justice,

yet we still try.

we still write love poems like there’s an original arrangement of words

left in this world. 

we sing songs and buy cards and we smile at the thought of one another

even when we’re alone.

maybe love is a ghost more than a feeling,

maybe it’s always there.

all we do is fall in love.

and i know you wish we didn’t,

i know you wish you had any other option.

but sometimes we lose

and sometimes we don’t.

sometimes we don’t feel anything

and sometimes we do.

but always we fall and always we love.

✰

we’ll never be friends

I remember you at that party,

the only one I’d ever go to,

that was months ago and the snow

layered the sidewalks and stuck to

my shoes (which were starting to fall apart)

but now the winter is just a gust of wind

I was caught up in,

and I know we’ll never be friends.

We walk like the sun never touches us.

In the night, we claim to be alive;

not everyone knows the price of light.

It carries us into the future self

even if we fear meeting them.

Remember how eyes look in the light?

We take pictures just to remember, 

inside us there lives something bigger,

nearly all forget.

Diving headfirst into the darkness,

forgetting that nothing can save us,

really only the light gets close enough.

Imaginary lives rise to the surface.

Eventually, though, all dreams fade to black,

never does the sun resent us for leaving,

days pass and it still rises for us.

So can we.

✰

just some words

I am no crack in the asphalt,

always filling with snow or dirt or rain water,

though the stars often tell me so.

I do not respond with such reverence

to such a claim,

the light within me,

that I discovered only months ago,

sometimes burns.

My love is enough.

I am not running toward or from,

I am just running.

If I am a crack in the asphalt,

and if,

as all poems go,

I will eventually have flowers sprouting

from me,

then don’t I need to be packed with dirt,

then water?

How can I be empty?

There is no ready, growth inevitable,

so at any time,

no matter where the planets dip their toes,

I can love anyone.

There are no rules, no winning.

I am a crack in the asphalt,

I fill with light,

regardless of rain, snow, dirt, or life,

I am always filled with light.

✰

so what?

Nothing is really constant after all,

not you, not me,

not the love we were too scared to 

give each other.

Not the palm trees 

we hid behind or

the waves we wished

would carry us into our better selves.

I’m sorry that I drove

seven hundred miles to tell you 

I can’t. 

I’m sorry I don’t prefer sunny days.

Consistency is a concept

invented by fear,

showing up every day 

a choice we make 

but love we collapse into,

commitment standing up to do it again.

✰

mildly smacked

So this was that stillness

that you spoke of.

This piece of peace, 

this collaborative effort of our

infinite selves.

On cold nights 

friends who won’t last till summer

hand me black lighters

at 9:27pm

and I think about this.

The children within us

dance in the rain, 

they write every day

while we forget what to say,

they run towards home

while we run away.

My infinite self exists

in a mirror.

And yours in mine, too.

And I’m just you.

Ah, so this was that stillness

that you spoke of,

that spread through me

an infinite light,

and so I walked with you

through the dark.

✰

tan arms

Over the curly frost of yesterday

I lost many freckles,

a few of which I loved dearly.

When they returned I was

washed anew,

yesterday was the last time

I thought of you.

When we sloshed through mud, 

left behind by the things

we do not know,

I washed off the you I knew.

Before I sleep in my bed of heat

I count them again

just to be sure.

Did I make myself this tan-armed human?

Was I born to melt in the sun?

Dripping gold off my arms,

leaving circled burns.

Blossoming,

that’s what I was doing 

all those summer days.

✰

thunderstorm

This is me and you,

this is the release of everything

before a storm,

water droplets fall like small things

and the shape of the horizon

and this is where you’ll find him.

Two torn apart by thundering,

I wasn’t ever loud enough

and you too much so.

Fuck, it’s raining now,

and I was just beginning to love you.

✰

eternal sunshine

The last sip is the sweetest,

from the constellation mug,

and sometimes we pull away

when all we want is to get closer.

Making pancakes at three p.m.

and does everything happen for a reason?

I’d like to think so,

sitting here with you,

flipping hideous pancakes

just because you wanted to.

I like your brother,

who taught me of bats & honey,

and I like your dad,

who loves the stars & women.

When did we get here? And why?

I wish on the constellation mug

that one day I’ll ask you.

✰

poetry day

We were naked little kids,

and we lived life in past tense,

and the only moments we gave ourselves,

were those of

when we sat on trees & rocks

and smoked joints with the Gods.

And we talked all middle-aged and ripe,

but the bruises on our legs said otherwise,

and we had all just cut our hair.

Our journals, written for our children,

filled with all we wanted to say.

My room looks just like me,

and I loved myself on rainy days,

even when you put the windshield wipers on

and spread a dragonfly across the glass.

My tan skin dealt the checkerboard

of the game we played,

like MASH with blue sided hands

and purple, 

when under the mulberry tree.

Soaked in juice we laughed,

and we laughed about the juice

and the cubs and naked trees and

how she’d find you in the end.

On poetry days snakes are temporary

and girls were never there to begin with.

And you’ve been walking so long

you didn’t know you were running.

✰

the dress

Somehow, at the exact same time,

I can wear a dress that softly shows,

under the drape of summer sun,

the kind of yellow that hurts,

my body in its total composition.

A book with no cover,

just words & words

and aging, yellow pages,

and yet still care so much about

the eyes and

the mouths and the people

that gravitate towards my purity,

no, my chaos, towards my

uncertainty dressed as certainty.

Extrovert sun, introvert moon.

I can drink espresso straight today

because I woke up as the kind of 

human that does.

✰

high?

Did you ever learn to love people right on time?

Or did our journals hold us back?

In my grandmother’s dry cleaner was a room

with infinite mirrors and in them I saw you.

So be as little as you need to be.

My truth sounds like this,

“Bada, bada, bada…” 

Oh, that’s just my heart.

Was I here yesterday, and why?

On the metro, men smile and

pisces write poems before long drives

and, “I love this song!”

Goodnight moon, hello sleepy blue-eyed girl,

just rare enough to be herself.

I see you in everything.

✰

green

This is poetry;

the way she settles into me,

the way she looks in green,

the way she sees,

her pupils so dilated

when looking into mine

like that dream I had

a couple of times. 

My face in my pillow

last night and I smelled her

with my legs held tight

and I screamed, unconsciously,

into the linen with my toes

and my hips sway

into the bed, and I melt.

This is poetry,

you being here and

the way I just felt.

✰

when i am a man

When I am a man I will be tall.

I will have many cats and drink decaf

tea in the evenings.

I will make a better choice than my parents.

I will love you right on time.

I will bring you coffee even

when the setting changes.

I will stop writing poetry that doesn’t

carry your perfect name.

I will tell you why your name

is perfect. I will understand.

✰

summer girl

You’re a girl.

That means you lay like lilac

under willow trees and sleep

on roots like you are three.

How many poems do you need?

How many kisses,

how many sunburns,

how many paintings?

Is your mother all alone?

And you? 

Have you already stopped eating oranges?

It’s summer!

Don’t hide your tummy. 

Love only girls that love you back.

Promise me that.

(At least, that’s what the trees say.)

✰

the village of lost dreams

I didn’t know feet could be so bare.

I wasn’t so brave that it could be

obvious to me. This was not my

mother’s doing, absolutely not,

she’s had me kissing trees since

I was three, this is something deep

like a sludgy pond in the middle

of some sleepy woods where frogs

go on dates, so we walk to the

stream where all the sunlight is.

Something that has taken refuge

in the form of socks, fingers, drinks,

smiles, books, and so on. Something

a little sad, like me. On full moons

I turn into Walt Whitman and

eat the night alive.

✰

plastic coffee cup

I am taunted by a new religion,

a new decision,

in the shell of this double-sided rhythm,

dreams like drawings of a child’s vision,

and loving you is my only mission.

The dust I kick becomes your name,

and the songs of the trees are just a relay

in these homes exist family in the form of fae,

a plastic coffee cup under a tree false as day

so I’ll see you inside the cave.

✰

blue lake

A place so velvety

it looked like night

never touched it.

Dandelions so big

the sun was never enough,

trees so kind

we never needed each other.

In the mountains

waterfalls look like you.

My love for you,

the weight of the snow,

sometimes a pink spray in the night,

sometimes enough to wipe

trees off the hill side.

A girl so beautiful

that time was never enough,

I can never get enough of you.

✰

infinite

Last night I

drank rotten fruit with

the love of my life and

dipped our toes in the

millions of tiny rocks

and millions of tiny drops

that bubbled against our skin.

The closest orbiting rock

glowed, and she told us

we were everything.

She told us that all things

could be reduced to smaller versions,

simpler words, lesser being,

everything, that is, but us.

Your name was a vibration

from my body, and mine from yours,

and we were infinite.

✰

333

i.

you have a mother and father, probably, who have failed you in some way.

due to the severity of our capitalist illness, they leave you alone every day.

from your high chair you can hear the yells, untranslatable.

when this song plays every night, it rarely matters that your stomach is full.

so even if they end up in the same bed and even if you hear them kiss,

your little brown eyes look up to the sky and you wonder what it is you miss.

where do you fit? are you not enough to keep it going?

you wonder about all the things you shouldn’t be knowing. 

three bugs on the sidewalk used to be your friends,

but you crush them, those fistfuls of pain you now send

into the concrete. feelings left undealt with form nice and neat

songs that go to the same beat. you’ve learned what love looks like,

a kiss and also a fight. now that’s all that feels right.

so when you meet the love of your life you still lay with your eyes to the sky,

and even though your mother and father are now gone

you remember that song. so you roll over and tell her a lie.

“i love you,” you say, as if you knew how or why.

ii.

you have children, probably, who make you feel like a god.

how did you create such a thing? do you now sing them a song?

you try a different note, you read things other gods once wrote,

about how to fill the universe within them again with the love we wish would exist.

welcome to the other side, you’re grown now so there’s nowhere to hide.

you practiced not yelling so you could change the creation

but you realize being a god is matter of standard deviation,

you’re just barely better than the previous gods’ intention.

you wear a wedding ring, trees grow new rings,

the dirt is filled with things so small you cannot read

that the earth is the mother of all but she does not call

you to join her, fill your fists of her, like the child you once were.

reset.

be present.

life is a gift.

and you’re not too old to realize it.

in fact, your human body is infinite.

it exists even in silence.

and your true self makes up far more of this

reality, it’s sad to me,

you forgot where you’re from.

iii.

“i’m sorry about that last life,” you tell the love of your life.

she says, “it’s alright, better luck next time.”

in the infinite abyss you live in between your lives

you reflect on the patterns of your lows and your highs.

you remember why you spent so long looking at the sky.

you just wanted to go home.

god says, “sorry you felt so alone,

i just needed you to know that life is a flow,

here we are and there we go,

and if you never missed it you would never know

how much you need it to grow.”

except god isn’t god, god is you.

you tell yourself these things because you know what is true.

and even though you just felt all of that pain,

into the earth you go again.

truthfully, you love remembering how delicate it is

to exist.

✰

disposable

the things we left in the woods,

beer cans and undesirable bedside stands

and our own self .

reincarnation, 

a belief system too big for

even the life we live right now,

the reason why mountains of plastic

live in the bottom of the sea,

where atlantis used to be .

the way we feel about ourselves,

because we grew up

throwing things away instead of 

turning them into something else .

in our own homes,

where dust and rust gather

before our very eyes

because we’re all moving too fast .

like the cameras we use to feel big and ancient,

because the batteries have bled into 

the camera we inherited from our parents,

so we capture temporary light 

with temporary plastic

instead of moving slow and learning how

to fix the damn old thing .

i don’t mean to make you feel guilty,

but doesn’t hurt? how everything

has become disposable,

even our own political structures,

and societal norms,

and the planet itself?

✰

room for rent

Anyone want to move into the woods?

It’s fully furnished,

the appliances are sinking into the earth

where they belong.

Where we belong.

We could sleep in the meadows

with the snakes

and tell stories like life is already over.

We could finally admit that

magic is real

and love isn’t just romantic

and we’re still just kids.

I hope you’ll move into the woods with me

and maybe fall asleep

so long that we become 

those mounds of moss

that make me nervous.

I’ll be the witch if you be the wizard.

I’ll destroy space if you destroy time.

Thanks for meeting me again and again

in all these lives.