Jun 02
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In the Morning

In the Morning, I listened to Classical Music. 

I was a Child, the piano an escalator. we danced, the stairs and I, shackled to heaven’s baroque architecture, to the Music’s swollen joints. our Knees creaked, lamenting: we’re as old as Mozart, and he only lasted a couple of decades before he expired into History.  

I was Scared of being a Child. 

the Sun hurt my eyes. the dew took too long to evaporate. I hated the fact that I had never tasted coffee. I told my mother that I wanted granola instead of Peanut Butter Puffin Puffs. 

the Day was a Cathedral. 

us Children built a society, a city in the Rose bushes. we bent the brambles into arches that could support the weight of our Symmetry. we made our world into something delicate. and our Bones were stretched, de-calcified. 

In the evening, I read High Fantasy. 
May 30
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Dying Daisies

May 18
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Propped Up Sky

Cycling along the flat cement at sunset, we hear the frog song. It swells, candid and all-consuming. It’s like drinking plain mint tea on a bitter evening. But winter is gone now, we must find our sharpness elsewhere. 

Even the Douglas firs have become dry in this new heat. Even after a rainstorm, I see them struggling to breathe. My home is supposed to become a utopia before it dies. How many years do we have again? How many years do I have to live with unnaturally ripe strawberries and swans that have decided to stay for winter? 

 
May 06
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Sweet/Sour

In a found place, a sheltered place, a jealous place, I eat my heart. 
It tastes like fresh strawberries and rotten secrets. 

You, open ground, open sky, cloistered in my stomach, 
sit still until I call our name, until our thoughts are as sweet/sour as wine. 
 

Apr 29
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Close

Apr 29
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A Photograph, a Stranger's Face

A stranger's face, a mild wonder of afternoon light. 

the treadmill rolls on, hot cement, jogging sweats, 
I’ll see you again in my memories of tomorrow, my dreams, 
after we’ve sprinted around the block, emptied our lungs of old air

and stopped breathing. your dark curly hair and freckled nose remain.
 
Apr 14
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Our Stories

I drink from cupped hands, fresh water, fresh blood, fresh weeping. There is iron in our skin, solder. You play a winter melody like it’s a hearth fire. Hungry, hungry, whole, watching our souls ripple outwards. We are our stories.
 
Apr 12
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Spring Break: a Reflection on Vacations

God, it’s finally spring. I can feel my face burning as I read out on the patio this morning. I wish that spring meant something other than an unfounded, unsubstantiated brightness that threatens oblivion and a terrible headache. But drunken monotony is better when it’s sunlit. My thoughts move more freely under the blue sky. I don’t feel like my words have to reflect the view out my window. There's no window, only air, too much air to breathe. 

I’m barefoot, lying in my aunt and uncle's courtyard. I’m the only one on vacation, the only one for whom the city with its neat neighborhood blocks lined with cherry trees and people walking their well-bred dogs, is an escape. I’m the only one for whom the conventional American Dream is an escape.  
Apr 10
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Semiotics/ Semantics

We, big-brained humans, distill the sensual into semiotics. 
But cracked open, cracked up, stopped at the stop sign, 
I’m made aware of the prickly hairs growing out of my skin,
of the virulent grass pushing through the cement.

It's semantics really; are we expanding inwards or outwards? 
 
Apr 08
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Highways


It’s a clear day. The sky is blue. The grass is green. And we are driving down the highway. The journey is marked by spastic bursts of conversation and a chunkily categorized landscape. I press my nose to the glass and point. There go the suburbs, the farmlands, the mountains. We are squished between moments, reckoning with a folded horizon.  

A highway is a strip of land, paved over, with bold yellow stripes running down its center. It’s a dead snake. It’s everything it has crushed, everything it has pushed to its periphery. And it’s nothing, a vacuum with the sole purpose of transporting our consciousness from one location to another. A highway is a portal forced to exist in conventional space. It’s a portal stretched thin. 

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