Dec 26
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Silk Cities

I build cities from dancing ribbons, 
breathing wind into the tiles of recollection and imagination: 
cold bricks, warm clay, wet lips. 

I want to be Marco Polo, 
to map my memories with extraordinary facts.  

The silk road was a solid delineation, 
a moving line of moments. 

Nonfiction is Nonsense. Nonsense is Nonlinear. 
A narrative flows like silk, like a road, like a city:
cold bricks, warm clay, wet lips.

Dec 26
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ingrown passion. rotting flowers. sweating like a clinomaniac. sweet, sweeter, sweetest, sour.  I want the sky to fall.   

remember the pickle jars.
I left them on the windowsill.  

rain water. salt water. vinegar. coffee stains on the coffee table. concentric circles all the same size. each slow breath, static, commensurate. I follow broken lines. fermenting in-domitable curves. 

passion ingrowing, flowers rotting, sweet dreaming, sky falling, pickling, expanding, folding, never whole, never more than whole.

Dec 22
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Complementary Light

We carry complementary lamps: 
Stars and Christmas and Pastel-Sun.  

A little light is a glorious thing,
like the fleeting harmony of footsteps.  

The sun sets at four; and we remember our candles,
each a fresh fire, a clock that flickers. 

We march on, steady, frozen hands carrying flaming drumsticks: 
Red Cheeks, White Toes, and Green Laurels on each Soldier's Head.
Dec 19
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The Monastery

“Tedam! What should I do when I find a snail in my flowers?”  I asked, holding up the small creature for his inspection.

“Place him as far from the eggplants as possible.” Tedam laughed. He was weeding the vegetables.  “Over there, by those dandelions.” He pointed to a patch of thick green grass growing by the cliffside. I leapt out of the sunflowers. “Be careful! The snail may look tough with his heavy armor and penchant for invading flower gardens, but he’s delicate.” 

“He’s pretty.” I stroked the snail’s intricately patterned shell with a dirty fingernail. 

“Look close enough and you will find that everything is beautiful.” 

“Even my fingernails?” 

“Even your fingernails.” 

“Even my toes?” I looked down, wriggling my feet in the mud. 

He smiled. "Especially your toes. Your toes taste the dirt and the dirt makes things grow."   
Dec 18
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Ornamental Angles

My soul is depreciating. I folded myself into complex origami, gothic arches and bowties and little paper snowflakes, but the creases are starting to tear. 

There is nothing aesthetically pleasing about a Christmas Tree.  Cathedrals are beautiful. Mosques are beautiful. Forests are beautiful. I think Christmas Trees might be beautiful. Is it beautiful to give life to a dead thing? 

Do hopeless pilgrims pound life into miles? Do fat bankers eat living gold?  Do passionate martyrs die alive? Or do we modify our Gods after they are gone: hopeless, fat, passionate.    

I’m failing to harmonize. Ornamental zits corrupt my facial symmetry, and the rain falls rhythmless. Midnight is passing, the moment illuminated in electronic light and an electronic choir of depreciating angles. 

Dec 17
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On Translating Lorca

This is an academic essay I wrote for my English class. I am pretty proud of it, so I thought I would share. Because it has footnotes, a work cited page, all the trimmings, I have to post it as a PDF. The essay is fairly long, but if you are interested in poetry translation I would love to hear your thoughts. 
Dec 16
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Tree Blood

A tree has blood, thick blood
that fills its cold fractals with slow warmth.

We watch the rain fall. 
And tenderly, I brush the water from my eyes. 

At the base of my stomach, 
is dirt that tastes like the moon. 

They planted a fairytale in my belly. 
And sang me to sleep until the seed grew into a dream.
My fingers smell like sticky sap and old firewood. 
To build a flame is to watch the leaves fall. 

You are only a stump now, 
Grandma Tree.  

I climbed your branches,
I bent you into human shape.
I sang you to sleep.

I want you to hold me,
becuase the rain has come again. 
I want to believe in your blood,
in the fairytale coursing through your trunk. 

Dec 12
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There is a demiurge living in my belly. 
I giggle until spring violates the Earth's cold corpse. 
The brash moon waits for us to curl our eyelashes and unfurl our hips.
I flamenco with a woman in my throat. 

Her center orbits around her movement.   
She's like Julie Andrews, like Audrey Hepburn, 
with perfect lips and eyes a child would draw. 

Pithy, husky, intellectualism.
How many times have we discussed Communism? 
We must be approaching revolution. 
How many times have we walked around the block?
Our feet must have broken ground.  

​I am preoccupied with her curling eyelashes and unfurling hips.
I am infatuated with the singing in my gut.

Dec 11
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From Flame

I walk downhill, through the rain and towards the sea. 

I am in My Eighteenth year. My Adulthood is shaped by how I temper smiles. There are infinite graceful ways to quench a burning. We skip and it is an act of rebellion. It is time to choose: Shepard or Sheep or Human Who Curves into a Beast.

Dec 10
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I could feel the burning contrast of continuance, the delicate flock-like dance of a hundred thousand moments distilled into a single impression that shifted with the passage of time and glowed with the curves and subtle vestiges of its previous shapes.

Each year we drive to my grandma's house for Christmas, through a pastel valley where we meet the swans.