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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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. 
Mar 19
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Prayer Book

I wanted to experience Catholicism, the ritual of eating God on a dreary Sunday morning. So last winter, I hauled myself up the hill to St Mary’s Star of the Sea, only to find that mass was conducted in Spanish and that God’s dismembered body was reserved for initiates. 

Is it too late for me to understand the rhythm of the ritual? Too late to flesh out my flesh? Too late to learn Spanish… Latin… Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic?  Elohim, your name is plural. I am who I am. You are who you are. We are who we are. Are we separate? Or are we whole. 

I want to kneel before beeswax candles, to feel God’s grace behind the stochastic incandescence of our light. I want to passionately believe what my ancestors knew. Dear, Mr, Sir, Your Majesty, Your Eminence, The Pope, give me a prayer book. I’ll repeat the words until they become palpable, palatable, poetry.

Mar 11
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Wet Paper

Our eyelids slowly fold,
your fingernails creasing my skin
as you tell me not to cry.

Suppressed by geometry,
there’s no room for imprecision
in our origami sorrow.

There will come a day,
when wet and wrinkled,
our tears will finally fall.

Surrender is unconditional love.
Wading through waisted paper,
we’ll sigh before we die.

Thank God for decomposition.
Mar 06
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Schrödinger's Cat

The refrigerator has skin.
It hums, cold through the cold night, singing to itself.
There is an emptiness wound into our mechanisms. 
In the dark, I poured myself a cup of orange juice. 
Acid, lips, lungs, I couldn't swallow; I rejected the sun. 
Like refrigerators, we are haunted by a timeless past. 
We hum our ancestral melodies to keep our insides from spoiling. 
I once heard a story about a cat.
It barfed up its guts after drinking antifreeze.
I like to think it survived.
a costume of itself, it continued to purr. 

Feb 28
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Cherry Tree, Blossoming

Cherry tree, you flourish in so many fragile ways. 
I shelter under your bare boughs, waiting for spring. 

Time moves delicately, upward with splayed fingers. 
We sit together, cold and open to loose clouds.

I imagine that beneath your bark is another green. 
One that doesn’t surrender, steadfast and sneaky, 

it knows that blossoms unfurl and fall away. 
Our passion is temporary, hot and perfumed and

alive, forever rooted in the earth. 

Feb 26
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It’s a delicate thing, living, 
waiting to notice the sun. 

Twisted, like a autumn leaf, 
I turned with your breath.

Our fingers were tangled, 
together, made to be one. 

Feb 13
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Over the snow

Warm light after a winter wideness.
I keep walking down the street, plowing softly, 
each lit window a church bell melody. 

An unmade god lives under the new snow.  
Our city was built on a chess board, 
built with numb fingers, pink and alive.

I push through the illuminated darkness,
knees shaking, footprints freshly obscured, 
hands in my pockets, hair windblown and frozen.
Feb 09
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To Desire the Godess

The methodology of beauty:

between piano chords, we listen to the rain fall. It splashes into the river. I am gone, lost through holes knife-point whittled into a set of reed pipes, lost to the rising wetland water. Each heart-beat is scattered, coordinated like a flight of swallows. 

Homesexual romance is like a broken mirror. Two friends, two lovers, miss-matched comedies and tragedies. You’re my better half, seen through a raindrop, wobbling with delicate viscosity and falling with perfect arrowdynamic slant. 

Our bones are one. Our flesh is separate and stinking with perfume. In a series of dancing angles, we break like silk. We share our breath, our dream-scarred cigarette smoke, our deep-belly sorrow, through the sacred gate of our lips.

To love is to desire the goddess, to lose yourself between beats.
Feb 03
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The Metronome

I am terrified of what it means to be alive,  
terrified of the queasy absurdity of living, 
the spring-flower-hot-oil rhythm of life.  

Trilling along a relentless number-line, 
we step over our self-constructed cliffs.
I think mathematical relationships are proof

that God is real and that we discovered Him. 
Our good-bad heartbeats are caught between
the loose geometry of falling-dead leaves 

and a cruel metronome.
Jan 31
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Your persistent algebra tears me from myself. 
After our kiss, my creaking timbers were finally composed. 

I've been waiting for a secret knowing. 

Under the covers, warm and full of light, it came to me:
the sun is real, but in every dew-drop lives a thousand stars. 

We are lampshades, you and I, with arms made to caress,
with tummies and lungs and breath,  

Did you see the moon last night? It was lost behind the clouds, 
behind the hands you held over my eyes.
Jan 24
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New day

We are made of flesh: 
                 pink and unseen.   

Hands pressed together in prayer, 
lips sealed shut, eyes closed, 
fetal and kneeling.  

Tender and raw:
           to be human is to wait for morning, 
to collect mason-jars 
and save them for a rainy day, 
to watch them fill up with sky-water.

I found my heart in the cloudy sunrise
and the fresh touch of a downpour, 
cascading with my blood-river.
Jan 18
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Pink and red

Your lips are pink. I can’t tell if it’s lipstick or love. 
I am frowning, halted, playing hopscotch with my breath, 
                                        but you are swathed in that pink dress, 
                                        as guileless as the summer I tried to paint as stifling.  

To falter is to wait to be sophisticated, 
                                        to wait until a pink heart turns red.