Jan 23

the curse of knowledge

do you overthink things?
my therapist asks.

i reply,
but everyone does.

i'm not talking about everyone. i'm talking about you.

i am everyone,

i tell her.

how so?
Dec 20

What Almost Happened

There was a police car parked outside the school.
It brought rumors spreading like ink in water, twelve adults in the cafeteria, classes starting with hushed discussions, rumors, officers gazing through cloudy windows, students hesitating just before stepping out into the hallways, emails at 11:00 PM, forced jokes shouted in a crowded room, rumors, newspaper articles, fingers trembling from frustration, what

“For the second time in a week, a potential school shooting was thwarted by a tipster who gave authorities a heads up -- this time in the town of Middlebury, Vermont.” (McLaughlin, Eliott & Chavez, Nicole, CNN World News)
Sep 30

Painter's Sun

You think you know
the color of the sun
until you sit down
to paint it.

You reach for the yellow,
yellow of sunflowers,
of a cliché crayon drawing you did,
a perfect lemon in the top right corner.

But your hand drifts then
to sparks on the crest of a wave,
to that glimpse of melting iridescence
in a friend's eye-white.

Orange is the bottle you finally seize
to squeeze autumn leaves,
the setting sun over a lake,
onto your impatient palette.

But soon, all those colors
(plus a few more)
are spilled on the canvas
(plus your fingers).

You think you know
the color of the sun
until you realize
you don’t know colors at all.

Who else can validate
that your ocean is truly blue,
that your sun is the gold
you’ve always been sure of?

After all,
everything is perception
Audio download:
painter's sun recording.m4a
Sep 17


the stairs don't creak in our new house.

in our old one, they did.
i can't tell you which ones

but if i were to go back,
i have a feeling
my feet
in the same reticent places they used to
(to aviod unwanted attenton)

back when i had something to hide
from anyone

besides myself.

Sep 02

The Boy Who Danced With The Sun

    Once upon a time, in a village like many others, a village who danced and sang, a village with traditions and myths, a village of stories and magic.
    The village was nestled into the crook of a mountains’ arm. It was a charming destination. It was filled with violet-covered wooden cottages and cobblestreet downtowns where people sold eggs and bread. The villagers loved each neighbor dearly. They provided for one another and never let anyone go hungry. Every one of them loved and laughed and sang.
    Except one little boy. He was of fair, dark skin hair and raven’s eyes. Other villagers seemed disinterested with the boy’s blandness, and the feeling was mutual. He was a quiet child who rarely joined in on hopscotch or make-believe. But he was very good at pretending.
Aug 21

lessons from a wannabe god

you would not make a very good god.

gods can do whatever they want,
be whatever they want to be.
but for you, child...you only want one thing.
you want to want.

looking out at hundreds of miles
of mountains, every inch covered
in emerald pine, you want
to be an eagle.
you want to breathe the air
above those pines.
you want to weave in &
out of the wind.
you want to disappear
into the horizon.

& if you were a god,
that is exactly what you'd do.
you'd grow wings as strong
as the mountains themselves
& make a home in those
soft green and brown needles.

but that would not be enough.

i have found
that even the most incredible,
inexplicable things
are better in the imagination.

yes, you
want to fly,
want to escape,
want to be something else,
Aug 02