Apr 23


This was supposed to be a poem for me.
At least, it was when I started.

Maybe it's a little ironic
to start with how it wasn't supposed to be started
and tell you anyway. 

You have always had a fascinating
way of turning me on my head. 

I thought I knew what I was doing. 
I thought I understood 
leaving and living 
and what makes me human 
and how to feel infinite 
or happy 
or whatever the word is. 

Ectsasy? Elation?

I am so much more than I thought. 
You have persuaded me into noticing 
and once I start I can't stop.

It's like meeting an old friend 
that has been gone for ages 
and suddenly they're everywhere:
in the same parking lot;
searching for the same book in the same library;
opening the silent door of consciousness in my sleep. 

And this is just the start.
This is just the title page

Apr 21

Spring Blooms

Apr 19


Apr 11


We forget every day to wear
shoes out of the house, especially 
when it is warm
and the sun drips from the sky 
like an overripe mango.

We no longer look both ways
before we cross the street,
or while
or after. 

We are too eager,
too care-free,
too much "go"
and not enough "slow".

"Hold my hand," he says as if I trust him,
as if I ever could. 
"Yes," is not an option anymore. 

We are own obnoxious warning signs. 
Apr 01

City 6.24

We are holding up the sun 
when, after the sky is in full bloom,
we contemplate the distance around the Earth,
and how far we are from the equator,
and if we will ever stand on it.

We are the ones you see
out of the corner of your eye
when you stand at the window of someone else's house
and feel like crying and try to stop but do it anyway. 

We are the ones
on top of the building on the corner of Canal Street.

We are the ones you try to find in the middle of the night:
eyes squinting into the black stairwell, 
damp feet on the wooden floor,
try and can't. 

We love to get lost
and never found.
Mar 25

We Are Learning There is More to Life than Breath

I've been dreaming of him lately
and for the past three years. 

I understand living has everything
to do with dying
and not the other way around. 

I am aware there is irony
in sleeping till noon
and staying up past midnight. 

I am aware most people
are helpless or hopeless
or both. 

I understand that music is not the solution
to loneliness
or love
or falling out of either. 

We are learning that most questions
are rhetorical. 

I never want to wake up. 
Mar 25

Lincoln's Peak

Mar 21


Mar 18


I relearned today
about Earth's seven layers. 
I knew about them in 6th grade
but only in hazy, nondescript detail. 

Scientist's knowledge about the Earth
is only based on hypotheses. 

We don't actually know for sure
what we are standing on every day. 

All these layers of uncertainty
reminded me of myself. 

Do I have a mantle? 
What's really inside of me? 
Could someone tell how solid I am just by holding me? 

I cry when something inside me shifts. 
Am I all that measurably different from earthquakes? 

Are we defined by our core's composition,
or just by the way we feel when we are proven to exist?