May 30
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Dying Daisies

what are we but dying daisies? 

oh, holy one, one who is whole,
leave me without petals. I'm only
a yellow center ripe with pollen 
that has not yet become honey. 

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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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
poem challenge: Six Words
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A warm morning, 
touch the corpse.  
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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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.