Apr 27

Acadia

Apr 03

Still Searching the Remaining Episodes

These are the final four podcasts in the series of six that I created for an independent research project at school. 
Episode 3 is called 'Searching for the Sites'
Episode 4 is called 'Digging for Contacts' 
Episode 5 is called ' Odd Coincidences'
and Episode 6 is called 'Conclusions' 


You can access the two previous episodes by clicking on the titles below:
Episode 1 'The Secret Safe'
Episode 2 'Souvenir Medallion' 
Apr 02

Ode To The Snipe Ireland Lightning Bugs


Let me live forever in those evenings filled with sticky heat
and your hands, fumbling for the doorknob. 

I’ve forgotten how to run.
You refused to give up on rain
and the frigid creek by the road. 

I don’t remember
how many stars we caught in jars,
but I know we released every one. 

I don’t remember
how many times I felt like spinning and spinning
under the moon that opened like a wound. 

September nights taste of mangoes. 
They land thick and sweet in my mouth 
and get caught between my teeth.

I wanted to sit out on your porch
and gnaw on the night’s pit. I never
wanted to sleep again. 

I didn’t mean to lose you
long enough to move on. 

 
Mar 27

Rome

Mar 27

is it the leaving

concept: the highway gurgles and the horizon looks like a city
that’s been flipped on its back and tattooed on someone’s empty hand. 
we roll down the car windows and let our hair fly out. 
the storm fills our heads and we
open and open our mouths, like dying fish, trying to get a taste of the
sky. 

concept: we are becoming misplaced in our fabricated freedom.
i tell you how the street corner glows when the sun rises and you tell me
we are too stubborn to forget the dark in our eyes.
the asphalt stretches, the light grows nearer.
both threaten to swallow you too soon.
i ask, is it me or the leaving that makes you hurt?
you pull clouds over your eyes and look the other way. 
later, i find a torn notebook by your bed. 
me, it says. me
I wonder how much sleep you got last night, 
how many years it took for you to spit that up. 
Mar 20

Skull Shells

My head is a hole
and you are the parasite. 
You have become the wind
that pulls, pulls and refuses to push.  

You are the sky that never opens
willingly into anyone's mouth, especially not those who wait.

There is a lone car on the empty highway
behind my house at midnight,
driving at full blast, blurring colors and sounds
onto the patient asphalt. 
I want to chase after it. 

No matter
how much salt I swallow
while holding my eyelids open
with my thumb
there is never enough to fill my stomach. 

We are all just layered words,
waiting to be cracked open
in the morning
like an egg spilled haphazardly on the kitchen tile. 

I refuse to be forgotten. 
I refuse to be squeezed down the bathtub drain like greywater. 

Mar 15

Still Searching Second Episode

Mar 14

Still Searching First Episode

Feb 11

If We All Refused to Swallow Darkness

Last night I was a bird. 

I remember flying over my best friend's room. 
I saw his eyes staring through his ceiling at me. 

I remember seeing my sister's face
and her hand waving, waving. 

I remember feeling split.
Like I was someone else,
as if I had never been anything other than a ghost. 

When I awoke I was sinking. 
My tangled sheets reminded me of ocean waves
or a pot boiling over. 

Who do I love? 
Who do I want to be?
Why do we crawl towards the light
like it is the only choice we have? 

When I was younger the world was my sky. 
I never fell asleep afraid of my own eyes. 

Why do we throw bricks
into our own abandoned buildings? 

I want to be someone who remembers
or laughs without trying
or both. 

I want to wake after a dream and know that I've flown. 
Feb 10

For my dad, when he was eight

Sometimes, especially on days when I wake before the sun, 
I cry and don't know why.
I think most people do occasionally. 

Last week I received a brown envelope
full of old passports. 
I stood at the countertop and opened it with my nail.

I flipped through the top few
and examined my grandfather's picture,
the stamps, the places he'd been, his signature on the line. 

And then, at the bottom of the stack, there was my father. 
I knew without reading the name. 

He had the same half-smile
and open eyes and way he tilted his head. 

And then I was crying
and I think I was happy. 
I remember smiling
and licking a tear from my top lip.

I couldn't stop looking at that tiny worn passport photo. 
I couldn't figure out how all that rain got inside my heart. 

Sometimes, I think when we're desperate
we see ourselves in people we love. 

Pages