maybe i love the fall,
because all the beautiful colors
remind me of the different things,
i could’ve been.
maybe i love the winter,
because i realize
all the things i could’ve been,
will end anyway.
maybe i love the spring,
because everything
i was sure was dead,
comes back.
maybe i love the summer,
because we enjoy
everything that’s grown,
before it falls apart again.
imagine,
the biggest roller coaster.
all the way to the sky,
no limit.
now put that on top
of itself…
that’s love.
i want you to invite us over
when the dishes are still dirty
and your underwear is on the floor.
i want you to invite us over
when your house is a mess.
i want you to invite us over
when you think we won’t come.
i want you to invite us over
when you’re feeling alone,
and i want you to invite us over
when everyone’s there.
i want you to invite us over,
when your feeling self conscious,
and i want you to invite us over
when you’re flawless.
i need to find a way to open up.
do you see me?
i’d like to think you do.
i know you do.
let’s have a party,
and celebrate nothing…
because nothing has made me feel
a lot more than empty somethings.
maybe someday,
we could be something.
we dress in our fanciest attire,
outfits pieced together for years.
faces tied
looking in the mirror,
stringing together
every word you’ve experienced,
so you don’t have to use
the ones you feel.
everyone knows,
everything,
about you.
and at the same time…
nothing at all.
the fires you start,
remind you of
where the exits are.
give as little as you can
to end the conversation.
when you’re mad,
no one knows.
when you’re sad,
no one knows.
mask stuck to your skin,
with stitches,
made of mistakes.
questions
to avoid looking,
inside yourself.
you dive
as deeply
as you can,
because while you care,
hiding yourself
is more important.
your thoughts held together
by thin paper tape.
knowing
you should have,
used cement.
they walked out the door
and i stared at it.
i guess i’ll draw a little…
i drew.
i drew.
i drew!
i couldn’t stop.
shapes filled with figures,
lines dancing across the page,
middle school art class,
long sundays at grandmas house,
late nights in my sketchbook,
under the covers.
how did i forget this.
i can’t stop smiling.
more shapes,
more figures,
more forms.
what is this?
where has this been?
how did i never realize?
hyper focused, silent, and happy,
this never happens.
every vacation grandmother
took me to galleries.
just me.
did she know?
proposing in a sculpture park.
did i know?
how had i never thought
about the possibility
that maybe i could create
something.
years of being beaten down
into believing
there was only one choice.
trains over rivers,
planes crossing paths.
millions of people
seeing each other
without ever seeing each other.
traffic stops,
traffic starts,
traffic…
stops.
horns pull souls to work,
unrelenting energy,
an onslaught against laziness,
setting fire to existential worry,
every day.
every night.
all of us encircled,
by each other’s isolation.
counting our steps,
while our steps,
count on us.
moving through
the sounds of others,
when really…
it’s the sounds of others,
that move us.
the hardest thing to do
is realize your not good
at what you love.
the second hardest
is figuring out
what to do next.
letters sail off
hidden under a deck,
an orchestra of raindrops
dance on ocean foam.
letters didn’t used to arrive
instantaneously.
the smell of the ocean
stuck to the bags,
as they traveled
to their loved ones.
the author would watch
the letters drift off,
hoping that even a feint
smell of themselves,
would survive.
a reminder
to those back home,
of better days,
to come.
you give hugs
i didn’t know
i needed,
you fight for me
even when you
know i am wrong,
you keep my shirt
and smile
when i’m gone,
i keep this poem,
in my pocket,
for you Mom.
through wires and screens
music playing,
we paint.
our fire,
safe from the drops.
saying everything
but nothing at all.
old and on a
hospital bed.
i think about you.
do you think about me?
do we matter?
i hope so.
wake up the night
and i swallow.
staring at the ceiling,
at the golden halo tonsils,
her breath intoxicates me.
the sound of her cords
singing at the ceilings.
break it or snooze it,
she’s tripping
over the stars.
looking at a mirror
we swim in the reflection.
i bring about the fire.
i stir around the silk threads
of her hair,
tangled, trapped,
trying to blow it off.
the hair building,
restlessly i pull.
we smile.
warm, pillows of melted sweets
in my fingertips.
light, brief kiss.
inflated chest, up and awake,
gentle whispers, shin to shin.
thunderstorm raging out
the umbrella protects us.
as we grip it,
i pull vigorously.
the wind will not take us tonight,
because tonight,
tonight…
it’s just us.
treadmill,
no matter how hard
i try to get away,
your belt still turns.
i thought
if i walked away,
eventually
the belt would break.
but now,
it still sits there,
turning.
sleep?
push through.
try to find
something?
yourself?
no time.
they tell us,
just.
keep.
going.
trying to justify
their choices…
by making them ours.
if nothing is done,
what’s the difference?
what are moral actions worth
if we just sit here?
stuck in philosophical
feedback loops,
helping no one.
sleeping on floors
while others preach to them
from beds.
appropriating stories
from sumarian tablets,
poets of gilgamesh
rolling in their graves,
boats with animals
two by two,
floods with three doves
plagiarized just for you.
oh how easily you take money
for stories that aren’t yours.
only recognizing inspiration
if it makes cultural conversion
more convenient.
confession to absolve your wrongs,
backhanded responsibility
where your justice belongs.
no true psychologist in sight
but don’t worry,
you’ll find “the light.”
and let’s not forget
every chapter
written by a man.
happy to add your books
to the library,
but not to add the library
to your books.
philosophical texts
casually excluded,
thinkers never added,
women’s voices silent.
human minds
and hearts
only mattering,
if they’re the ones,
that follow you.
the sun will explode someday.
the last human will dissolve.
the universe will collapse on itself.
your legacy,
will be erased,
by time.
let this burn inside you,
uncontrollably.
existence is a joke
that has played on us.
we have been given life
with the knowledge,
that someday,
it will all be taken away.
do not let this depress you.
do not let this consume you.
do not read stories
to dull this thought.
i beg you.
reach for things around you,
feel their existence in your hands.
embrace the absurdity.
it is not a weight
you need to escape,
but a balloon
strapped to your shoulders
with unlimited helium.
rise up,
tilt your head back,
bite into one of the balloons,
and inhale while you
make high pitched cackles
into the void.
do this in the face of darkness.
your existence
is the best comedy show
you could have ever hoped for.
let go of dreamy promises
of better days in death,
understand that we do not understand,
we merely just try to cope.
use your unforgiving grin
to mock death,
the way it tries to mocks us.
when walking back
to look at footprints
in the past,
don’t ever forget,
the new ones you’ve made.
clay prefers,
to dry alone.
trying to fix cracks,
we make it worse.
so now we ignore the cracks
hiding who we have become.
home is our clay.
family upstairs,
discusses that your best quality,
is someone else.
i wish,
i was clay.
looking in the closet
i know nothing fits.
getting ready for dinner,
we wonder,
what should i wear?
thinking for a bit
i say
“don’t worry
i’ll find something.”
both knowing
the only thing
i can fit into,
is a smile.
i used to call you bully
but now,
no one even knows your name.
falling victim to
your own lies,
from the hate you spew.
the volume of your voice
attempting to mask your lies.
now the only place
your voice echos,
is in your own head.
my aunt is a higher level than me
in candy crush.
she died two years ago.
on days like today,
i click into the pages
of those that have passed.
realizing that these pages,
mean more to us,
then their tombstones ever will.
the moment you reach
for the light switch
and it’s not there,
is the moment you realize
how scary the darkness
can truly be.
using kindness
as leverage,
only pushes,
others away.
help others
simply to help others.
do not use it
as some sort
of means to an end.
friendship is not here
for one person.
friendship is here
for each other.
if you ignore this
i fear,
you
will be
alone.
buying things no one needs,
because people with things
are happy it seems.
designer glasses,
being placed in your caskets.
everyone chasing
to get a piece of the pie.
when no matter what you own,
you die.
money makes it seem
oh so fantastic,
but really it’s all
just problematic plastic.
we use doors
to let people in.
their existence a monument
for our need to keep them out.
carving openings
in our homes,
only to seal them off
from others.
pretending to ourselves
that somehow,
we’re in control.
a world of color
dancing on a tunic.
their vibrance
eliminated by dirt.
our vibrance eliminated
by the fog of time.
artists of the renaissance
paid to make reproductions,
purely in white.
interpreting history
incorrectly.
leaders copied wrong,
while dismissing questions
because they’re inconvenient.
ignoring this,
while at the same time,
answering with blind confidence.
statues
that surround us,
all white, and all wrong.
missing the key component
of color.
animals watching from outside
curious why when we escape,
we put ourselves into boxes.
our evil
only existing
because we do.
a frail sense of self
trapping our egos inside.
realizing
that without people,
morality,
wouldn’t exist.
if you use money
to pass the time,
while others still struggle
to survive,
create
a school.
a library.
a kitchen.
a home.
instead of sitting here,
reading this poem.
we’re all just
old cupboards.
chipped paint,
with handles worn,
and inside our walls,
all scratched and torn.
breathing on spoons
as they stick to our noses.
balancing for hours,
without one falling.
tracing the lines
of skin,
between.
spoons in balance
while we sleep.
did we sleep?
doesn’t matter.
because we all
got to play
with spoons,
all night.
one works in layers,
one works in shades,
but together
they know,
the best laid plans,
are painted over some days.
you use knives to fix things,
that seems…ironic.
when your average person
wants to fix things,
we say i understand
or i know how you feel.
never have we seen
inside ourselves
like you do.
how does it look?
do we look like everyone else?
is it what you expected?
is there anything…off?
do we have thick skin?
soft skin?
under your own skin
is it the same?
sorry for all the questions.
just…nervous.
no one’s ever seen
this part of us.
as we lay here smiling
bodies side by side,
i’m happy we’re more similar
than alone.
we sit on the porch
admiring each others wrinkles.
each different leathery fold
shifting as we rock,
back and forth,
back and forth,
the rocking chair creaks
as she slurps up a fresh hot
gulp of black coffee,
a soft gust of wind
rolls over our faces,
and our wind chimes…
they begin to sing.
what a beautiful day.
you turn.
you smile.
you look me in the eyes.
you ask.
do you remember that little poem
you read on our wedding day?
i do.
that was nice.
we turn.
we rock.
back and forth,
back and forth.
i slide my hand on top of yours,
and play with the wrinkles
around your ring.
i kiss you on the forehead softly
and say:
“happy 40th anniversary hunny.”
the wind chimes
slowly stop singing,
and i whisper:
“i love you.”
while melting two or three sticks
for the spinal column,
i realize i’m in a dream.
this realization,
wakes me up.
now my mouth is filled with
candy canes and canadian bacon.
they’re stuck,
to the roof,
of my mouth.
a sign on the wall reads:
“don’t dive into an empty pool.”
confused i look to the other side
of the room.
another sign reads:
“welcome.”
welcome to where?
i wonder when i arrived here.
a voice
over a speaker
comes on:
“when we do anything
we always miss out on something”
odd.
i see a box in the corner
labeled “emotion weaving.”
i look inside.
a piece of tape reads “for winter,”
and i peel it off.
under the lid
are a pair
of compassion socks.
i put them on.
they feel.
so.
warm.
the speaker starts again:
“would all these objects exist
if humans hadn’t named them?”
huh…
i think to myself for a second…
i suppose that yes,
they would.
starting to hear the static
from the speaker,
i realized the voice
was coming on again:
“aren’t we just
dressing things up with words
to make us feel like we understand
the things around us?”
“the relationship of our mind
only tied to objects outside it”
after thinking about this,
i decide this is all
quite a bit much
for a dream.
i answer back:
“i would like to wake up now”
a few minutes went by
with nothing.
then slowly the voice replied:
“the only thing
that makes a dream, a dream,
is if you can wake from it”
no sleep.
wishing all the tearing
would stop playing in my head.
they gnaw.
the incessant crunching
makes my ears bleed.
but i’m not mad
the crunching is there.
i’m just happy to have
something other than silence.
we’re butchers
of words.
cutting them up,
how everyone likes them.
bloody fingers
that write poems,
make bloody nail marks
all over bodies.
we pretended
it was nail polish,
when we knew,
it was blood.
yea i’m talking to you.
passing off your work
on a friday.
you work
the same position.
the same times.
the same days.
but somehow…
you think your work,
should be ours.
not realizing
that bad days,
are not exclusive,
to you.
you know what a real team is?
the chicken parm
keeping warm in the oven,
and the bottle of wine
that waits patiently on the table.
no matter how late work goes,
those two will always wait.
someday i hope you realize,
getting home early
and sitting on the couch
is not as important,
as helping those
that are in in the same
unfortunate position,
as you.
what do you do if your imagination
is taking things you feel…
and making them real?
i’m not sure.
why does a
warm summer breeze
tickle your face?
or blades of grass
move softly,
through a breeze?
or why do
the smell of flowers,
cause a squirrel
to have a cute little sneeze?
these moments,
sometimes they just happen.
embrace their seconds,
and don’t think too long,
because these sweet
little moments,
eventually
are gone.
our house was a home
of brick and glass.
she preferred to build
with cold heavy brick,
i preferred to build
with one way glass.
the glass that dropped,
crunched on our feet
and we broke our toes
tripping over bricks.
like our parents,
our broken toes,
sloshed in puddles
of blood and glass.
until one day,
a pillow,
fell from the bed.
the pillow soaked up the blood
and slowly began to turn red.
instead of getting upset
at the mess,
she said
the pillow,
is our new brick.
i looked at her confused,
then suddenly she ripped a brick
out of the wall.
in its place,
she put a red velvet pillow.
one month at a time,
one brick at a time,
one window at a time,
the room,
turned into…
red velvet pillows.
now our walls are covered,
our feet no longer crunch on glass,
our toes are safe,
and our pillows…
are clean.
a surplus of band-aids
sit in the bathroom,
and when the walls crack,
feathers come out
to tickle our noses.
a soft room now sits
where we used to cut our toes.
the only tripping
is over feathers,
and the only falling,
is done together…
into bed.
her temple dive bombed
for my elbow.
as it made it’s way
towards the corner of my arm,
it reached peak velocity,
on a crash course.
bracing for impact,
quickly i slid the closest pillow
under her falling head.
a trampoline of air
fanned out in all directions.
just in time.
her head,
now resting.
her mind,
now quietly asleep.
i smiled.
relieved to know
that if this ever happens again,
i’ll be fast enough
to catch her fall.
do i cry? no.
do i panic? no.
i throw my hands into the air,
screaming with excitement.
i will dictate my mood
as i exit this world.
my head slams
against the seat.
everyone’s looking at me
screaming and smiling.
this is it,
this is the end.
my hands uncontrollably flail,
air streams cutting
from overhead.
i close my eyes,
let go,
and smile.
i don’t work,
i don’t work,
i don’t work,
that’s true.
i don’t work,
i don’t work,
i don’t work,
i want to.
i love these days.
warm whipped
buttered eggs,
in bed.
watching the sun rise,
and set,
together.
falling into a sea
of soft red plush,
while watching movies
for hours.
cuddling until the end of days.
i want this,
as often,
as we can.
wait, you’re skipping work?
staying home,
light bouncing off bodies,
cuddling while taking photos,
talking, drawing and listening,
to music.
this might be love.
new morning, relaxing,
smiles then going home.
quiet, peaceful, happy.
then,
passion begins again.
skipping food at work
for a kiss,
come home
and us.
new moments.
looking out the window,
there’s too much snow.
che!
look in my eyes!
che!
you’re smiling.
making love,
cuddling to get warm,
playing, ice cubes,
sweating, and learning.
your eyes,
my eyes,
our eyes…
happy for the red bean bag.
happy for soft touches.
happy for kisses,
that comfort a restless sleep.
stupid thoughts,
creep in.
turn on a movie,
mind going off,
like the motorcycle
that has no brakes.
chilean mechanics
forgot to put them in.
dumb? dumb.
thinking of the future,
reality hits hard,
we shut down.
tripping over a puddle
discovering it’s an ocean.
falling through a crack
small enough an ant
couldn’t fit through,
but now that crack is
an endless abyss.
sadness,
crashing everywhere.
needing calm.
we are longing,
and need sleep.
need to help find something,
hoping nagging thoughts,
will calm.
i just need to find
something to help.
make tea, tuck covers,
or maybe,
i’ll find it in my sleep.
wake up,
holding,
kissing,
then sleeping.
i hope you’re sleeping okay.
you don’t want me to worry,
about your sleep.
i sit here and listen
to each breath,
to make sure your okay.
wake up again,
overwhelmed,
overthinking.
need to help.
mind is restless.
body restless.
brush off the car,
slip and fall.
stop the tow truck,
to save the car.
slip and fall,
again.
can’t figure out
where the brake is
i can never figure out
where the break is.
plow driver passing by
struggles with me
to find the brake.
finally find it
and become friends.
driveway now plowed,
car now saved.
i smile knowing
now you won’t slip,
if you decide to leave.
trying to keep silent
about what happened,
but as i undress,
you ask.
taking snow out of my socks,
i tell you why my hands are cold.
then you tell me why,
my hands need to be tied.
move to the chair,
picking up the bags,
that fell off the motorcycle.
together cursing the mechanics,
for not putting brakes,
in our motorcycle minds.
why did they make it so hard
to just stay here.
laying on soft red plush,
soft kisses, holding bodies,
warm lattes, and water.
hoping now your throat,
feels better.
waves of thoughts disappear.
kiss goodbye,
butterflies,
and start to fall asleep.
moments later a kiss hello.
explaining what happened
to our brakes.
she pays your ticket.
we make love,
then she falls asleep,
as i write this poem,
to remember.
we risk everything,
for a little more love,
for a little more lust,
but to us,
that little bit,
is everything.
when you threw it at my heart.
it’s been like that
since last year,
because i’m too afraid
to start it again.
tasting syrup,
it’s burning.
brushing
my legs,
on the floor again.
sleeping.
maybe tomorrow,
i’ll make it to bed.
buried in the wall
to save money.
cement blocks fall,
while pastors,
look at our bodies.
beef jerky legs,
with raisin eyes.
see.
i am skinny now.
will you listen now?
cement blocks,
drop again to the floor.
body jammed against a wall,
with family bones in our backs.
hollow faces
sharing the tomb.
surrounded by
human leather.
no words.
uncomfortably silent pastor
please,
put back,
the block.
it’s cold outside on a friday.
i need to get the matches,
and i will not go alone.
so now i sit here waiting,
in this friday cold.
she holds her heart
with a blank stare.
a stare that can see
through a grown man’s chest.
she tells me the red
under her nails,
is from when
the queen painted them.
i believe her.
we lock hands.
mine are sweating.
hers are cold.
more polish rubs off
as she grabs my shoulder.
her nails leave red marks
all over my body.
i assure myself
the marks must be from
the nail polish.
she asks me to start a fire.
both knowing,
it’s not for the warmth.
she reassures me
it’s because she’s cold.
i don’t believe her.
i ask her where the blanket went,
she does not answer.
she ignores me.
kindling in hand
we look to the pit,
she sits at the edge,
and builds a small house.
it has windows and doors.
we don’t think twice
about putting so much time
into something that will burn.
we agree to pick up
the matches together,
this friday.
looking up,
i happened to see you.
you smiled.
in that moment
our lives played out
like a body of work.
i looked down at my phone
to gather my courage,
but suddenly…
you were gone.
before we grew up,
before the world wore us down,
you protected us from others
telling us what to do.
brothers and cousins,
sprawled out on couches.
snacks sitting on tables,
our childhood protected,
from others insecurities.
you are our shield.
when we mention we’re hungry,
you gather us up,
and place us into the car.
you ask us if we have
any music to play?
we put some on
and keep it quiet,
to not disturb the world.
looking at me you ask,
what type of music this is?
i tell you house music.
you say house?
like a home?
you like that.
you turn up the volume,
until we feel it in our souls.
driving to a diner
with a car full of children
at 2 am on a weekend,
you taught us
not to listen to those
who try and tell us,
how to live.
we were never told,
loose leaf paper,
was once a large roll.
machines took each one,
and tore them apart.
each piece,
now separate.
each piece,
alone.
give me a mask.
give me a back story.
that’s me today.
12 year old veins full of sugar,
i‘m not used to this.
fumbling words,
with ping pong pupils.
stomach bursting at the seems,
full of delicious candy.
i’ve seen
this ceiling
before.
i think the last time,
the guitarist had their shoes on.
dancing in socks on the carpet,
we whisper to each other,
this must be home.
wanna see me pick a scab on my knee?
lauren and nancy
giggled with glee,
is it bleeding yet?
let me see, let me see!
did you see?
i brought my new big wheels today.
i might even show it to you
after our p b n’ j.
well it doesn’t matter.
you can only go one driveway down.
then the rules say,
you have to turn around.
how about this:
we go past the driveway today.
you can’t do that!
well… i just may.
you know, the rules are there,
so we don’t get hurt!
now fix your glasses
and put back on your shirt.
what’s the difference
between the second driveway
and the third?
to me the only difference
is just a word.
we can get just as hurt
going from driveway one to two,
and adding a driveway,
that’s nothing new!
but we’re not supposed to
that’s what we’re told!
the adults followed those rules!
that’s how they got old!
well you know what
i’m gunna be the first!
sigh…
you’re such a trouble maker tommy,
you’re the worst.
fine.
so i take it you don’t want to come?
absolutely not this ideas so dumb!
how about you nancy?
ummm…
okay fine i’ll go alone!
can you at least watch the door
so my covers not blown?
i got you tommy nancy said,
then lauren blurted out
“your gunna be dead!”
i rushed to my big wheels
keys in my hand,
this is it! this is my stand!
i peddled so fast
the wind in my hair,
she’s never catching me,
it’s not even fair.
i looked back
as mrs. moore screamed.
i heard jeers and cheers,
it was coming from my team!
suddenly,
like i got hit by a train,
mrs. moore pulled my neck
and i squealed in pain.
i guess it’s time,
for my walk of shame.
big wheels in one hand
and me in the other,
she yelled:
“wait until i tell your mother!”
the next day i met the girls
on the glider,
nancy slid over,
and i sat right beside her.
you guys were right,
i guess i got mine…
i waited for a scolding
or serious line,
but instead they both whispered…
can we come next time?
here’s a box.
a beautiful yellow sunflower box.
or is it orange?
or is it really a box?
are boxes really even there?
existentialism is scary and
string theory is depressing.
there are infinite numbers
of me’s out there,
all of them sad.
there are infinite numbers
of me’s out there,
all of them happy.
i think sadness feels worse
than happy feels good.
so i worry my optimism
is most likely denial.
your wild hair
grabs us.
your soft
charcoal thumb print,
is on my chest
dodging water.
i don’t want it to fade.
can i keep it?
like the
birthmark,
on your shoulder.
drawing,
painting,
you whisper stories
in our ears,
we listen.
we smile.
this was always
going to happen,
you say.
does paint
always have to
dry?
what if we
never stop painting,
so it never dries?
scared to touch,
the painting as it rests.
feeling like
every line,
is exactly…
where it should be.
this story
you whisper to us,
is real.
and
it’s
ours.
your cold toes,
her soft lips,
and me
the furnace.
you gather
your cash,
and stash it away,
under your mat,
just don’t give it away,
growing it grows,
growing so fast,
look at you
with all that cash.
time is a weapon
it’s coming you see,
it won’t care
if it’s you or it’s me.