Mar 21

Traffic

Mar 18

Layers


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? 
Mar 03

How I Became a Let-Go

At the corner of 
Bowery St. mornings start with
Coffee brewed on last night's dreams and the refusal to 
Dampen darkness when it is uncontrollable.

Effervescence is his way of telling me to wake up. Summer sunrises are 
Forged from the unlocked door and are
Gone by the time I realize they are waiting. 

He is happiness and mirror-
Images of yesterday, when
Just we were enough.

Keeping myself whole on the car ride home is 
Like trying to stop the
Mouse from getting eaten by the
Night-watch
Owl.

Punctuation leaves a hole where there should be breaths. 
Quiet has to be
Reasoned with and 
Stolen from the
Tired metal staircase of an over-
Used Manhattan apartment.

Villainy is our aspiration 
When the infinite 
Xenial skylines of 
Your childhood put 
"Zoom" in the word leaving. 
Feb 20

Accidental Living

We are fighting entropy
in our sleep.

We fold the blankets halfway over,
fill our brains with blue light,
fall asleep on our sides.

I wake up sweating in the suffocating dark.
I recognize your desperate face
in the moon's craters.

I find your fingerprints
on paper bags and my bedroom doorknob,
places that crackle with the feeling of you.

Oranges no longer smell like sunshine, 
but of avenues, 
the sticky sweet nectar of your eyes, 
dirty rainwater, pouring down broken city pavement
after the first spring storm.

I'm not searching;
just noticing the way fragments of you
are splintered into my life.  

I might be falling apart,
I might miss something I've never had,
I might accidentally love everyone who smiles at me,
but I refuse to believe I'm the opposite of chaos.

We’re all disordered,
it’s unavoidable.
 

Feb 13

Jar

Feb 12

Petrol

I aspire to write anything 
worse than the sun. 
It threatens
to drive me to the nearest gas station,
refill my heart to overflow,
leave small expanses behind. 

I don't strive for perfection 
(only brutal honesty).

Had I understood I would've throw you a line, 
hauled you a try at living,
given you two hands. 

Maybe I don't know what it's like to vow 
my life away 
or to talk without "but" attached to the end of my nose
but I've had thousands of horrible chances.

I'm sacred of myself when I pay for hypotheticals online
and leave with locked doors in my wake. 
I'm contradictory.
Hypocritical. 

We're all in convalenscene
(surely, it's not my fault). 
Feb 06

Soap- spoken word

Feb 01

Alacrity

There is sunshine this morning. 
It warps the frost on the window,
melts frozen feathers into my palm, 
dampens the folded cuff of my coat. 
I'm not waiting for anyone. 

This morning there is music resonating
down the hallway at school. 
Someone stands in the center of a room to my right,
mouth open,
dancing with words,
smiling only half as wide as me. 

There's ink on my wrist,
blued from writing late into the night 
when my bare feet refused to walk
in the solitary dark to the cold sink down the hall, 
wash my hands
with frothy soap under endless water. 

I wish for a fleeting second I could light a tall candle,
sit crisscrossed on my bedroom floor, 
watch the wax tip into the tilting Earth
as I suffocate the gap between night and day. 

Instead, I press my head down, 
will myself to burn the memory
of the dancing figure 

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