Dec 12

Not How We Think to Find (the long wait)

Sometimes I wait for inspiration to hit me on the head
but it shouldn't be about waiting,
it should be about finding. 

Ideas should be extracted from the dirty carpet,
breathed from mint tea steam,
captured in a bottle when someone laughs. 

Ideas are not found,
they appear. 



 
Dec 07

Night

Nov 28

Winter Song

I have never found answers in oceans

I have stood on the edge of the water,
screamed my questions to the world,
pretended not to notice the silence 

There are streets with empty alleyways,
lonely poets at open windows
(worrying about the future of a pebble that falls by itself, 
we're all similar anyway),
broken lightbulbs, 
a quiet child that watches it all fall apart

Do you remember
what it was like when we were young
and could fill our empty together

You would pour hot water on the floor 
and I would come, wipe it from your brow with a jacket cuff,
fall in love with your dust a little more

We had strong feet
dedicated to laughing at empty eyes 
and sneaking quietly into ourselves

Now my feet are only running 
Nov 12

Black Hole

I'm leaving soon,
meet me 
where the sun is ours 
and the dark only ends 
when you swallow it. 

I don't think the wind
knows what it's like to want someone
so desperately that the sky
falls for him too. 

Yes,
I'm leaving. 

No amount of rain
or flood
or dying can stop me. 

My going is up,
my leaving is gone, 
my living is starting. 



 
Oct 23

Lost and Found

"Suns are for those
who know how to find them."

There was one in my jeans pocket
this morning and I refused to let go.

That's not catching, it's torture. 
But, fireflies are really golden raindrops
and they induce just as much suffering. 

If you want to know
what it's like
to hang upside down by your feet
on the corner of Main Street,
just above the road
I will tell you.

Sometimes I scare you
with the toenail of a word I learned
the night I forgot my names in a dream. 

You know I'll never drop you. 

He's in bed at night:
creaky wood floors,
drafty windows,
an open book with smudged charcoal antics 
from the day before. 

I can tell this life doesn't belong to him
or the person in the room next door. 
Or the ghost of a man
at the end of our hall
who screams for the idea of birds

Oct 21

Road Trip

The photos of the little bottles were taken in the George Eastman Musuem in Rochester, NY. The bottles are filled with different techni-color powder samples (for coloring photos). 
 
Oct 01

Rain, Again


I'm pretending not to know,
I want to hear you tell me.

Whisper it quietly into my waiting ear. 

Tell me as if you were the rain
that slides down my nose. 
Gentle: I'm laughing,
but my ribs don't hurt any less. 

I'm smiling again, 
you've brought me back
from waiting to be saved.

This is my call to freedom,
"Yes, I'm alive!" 

I'm not sure how you save
a soul like that but look,
here I am... 

now it's my turn to hold you,
please let me hold you. 

I still love the rain
but now I know why.  

Someday I'll tell you it reminds me of you.   
Sep 27

Midnight

Some things happen like this. 

sometimes

I really shouldn't be writing 
this to you. 

Not when all these eyes 
are on me. 

Not when I should be telling 
you about the gentle sun 
this morning or the dog 
that woke me last night, 
police lights in the driveway,
a quiet wail
from the street. 

Silence 
hurts 
but so does screaming. 
 

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