Posts
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Travel is a Rather Dangerous Thing
Sometimes there is so much to love
that it hurts.
Like a hole, waiting to be emptied as it's being filled.
That preemptive pain; anticipation of loss.
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Straight Line
I am not a straight line
I am crooked
I am curved
I am queer
Please, do not try to measure me
Please, do not waste your energy
On such a tiny being such as I
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New Years 2025
Footprints of tourists painting the sand,
The cries of the ocean berating the land.
Chappell Roan and milestones,
Informing the world we aren’t fighting alone.
Ten teenagers talking til the old year gives way,
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Storm Window (Election night) — Nov. 5
The screen in my window’s still down —
no wonder it’s so cold up here.
You’d think I’d know better, a house this old, this time of year.
And here I thought I shivered for the stress,
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Little Things
It’s getting hard to tell apart
My head from hell,
My melting heart:
A puddle on my driveway,
A stain upon my shirt.
Please just run away —
I don’t want you getting hurt.
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My Faith
I’ve never been religious much —
My Faith is in the trees.
The sort of Lord I worship flies among the Bumblebees.
And my idea of Heaven is buried ‘neath Her leaves —
Loves
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Creation
Before there was a bud preparing to breach what was not
Before one had to swim through the aether
Before the everlasting Eclipse shrouded all.
The flower brakes through demanding water and life
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the girl i met at camp
front lawns
frogs
crochet projects
and tears
bring mind to your
fairytale girl
she laughs like a poet would (and does)
and moves my fingers
on the ukulele strings
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hanukkah miracles
my walk home.
the 4 p.m. sunset already lighting the shamash on the horizon,
melting the mountains like orange wax.
lunch with my friends, onion rings & coconut yogurt
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I still
So Sunday was the first night of Hanukkah
And there are still cops
Outside the synagogue
And there are still people who look at us
With murder in their eyes
And there are still shootings
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The Season of Figments
Perhaps Autumn is the season of figments. When what’s real is hidden behind mountains of fog. It is a time when what isn’t dances perilously close to what is. The same way the burning leaves that fall, perform their final reel with the wind.
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I Don't Want
No. I don't want to love you.
I don't want to play songs that sound like you
until they become my whole head, I don't want
to write a poem
if you ever call me laughing and cold