poems

the attention span of seasons weeee! keep moving. not understanding i want you to invite us over. drinking the concrete mask don’t look back the charcoal sat on the table retiring shared sounds. realization with ocean journeys. even though i’m away we paint to myself. despierta la noche y trago glimmering we wipe memories. one of these money ≠ happiness thanks for the stress. do something about those books written in uncivilized times. your hazmat suit retracing steps to the basement to make work. get ready your pride bully. mortality headstones for the 21st century unchecked. emotional mafia on washington street. problematic plastic inside rectangles with sadness greek statues were painted. the humans have escaped the zoo having too much money. cupboards playing with spoons. the painter the surgeons forty years from now dream in a dream diet dr pepper has caffeine? butchers passing off your work on a friday for midsummer calm inside the red velvet house. writer's block catching turbulence. i don’t work this weekend risking everything for the flower on the window the clock stopped at 12:28. nyquil and kittens in new orleans cemetery #1. sleeping through friday, sleeping through november, we tripped over stars. temporary time at grandmas lonely loose leaf halloween sugar funk and waffles p b n' j in infinite boxes. charcoal thumb print with time as a weapon.

the attention span of seasons

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.

weeee!

imagine,

the biggest roller coaster.

 

all the way to the sky,

no limit.

 

now put that on top

of itself…

 

that’s love.

keep moving.

the moment

you stop,

 

is the moment

you die.

not understanding

in that place,

in that moment,

 

i hope you find

what you’re looking for.

i want you to invite us over.

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.

drinking

if you have to drink

to do something,

 

then it’s not

what you’re meant

to do.

the concrete mask

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.

don’t look back

happiness is

finding

new moments,

 

not getting stuck

in the old ones.

the charcoal sat on the table

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.

retiring

we work to not work

wages in mind,

 

reflect in that moment,

because that’s it you die.

shared sounds.

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.

realization

the hardest thing to do

is realize your not good

at what you love.

 

the second hardest

is figuring out

what to do next.

with ocean journeys.

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.

even though i’m away

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.

we paint

through wires and screens

music playing,

we paint.

 

our fire,

safe from the drops.

 

saying everything

but nothing at all.

to myself.

old and on a

hospital bed.

 

i think about you.

 

do you think about me?

do we matter?

 

i hope so.

despierta la noche y trago

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.

glimmering

don’t forget those eyes,

that were glued to the skies.

 

they saw hope.

we wipe memories.

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.

one of these

i can’t decide

with every days

breath,

 

if i’ve lived longer,

or just closer to death.

money ≠ happiness

getting money

at a basic level,

 

just takes the foot

off the depression pedal.

thanks for the stress.

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.

do something about those

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.

books written in uncivilized times.

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.

your hazmat suit

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.

retracing steps

when walking back

to look at footprints

in the past,

 

don’t ever forget,

the new ones you’ve made.

to the basement to make work.

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.

get ready

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.

your pride

some of us

would rather swallow

our vomit,

than swallow our

words.

bully.

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.

mortality

time takes

the best people.

 

but don’t forget

 

it also takes

the worst.

headstones for the 21st century

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.

unchecked.

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.

emotional mafia

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.

on washington street.

friendship is not here

for one person.

 

friendship is here

for each other.

 

if you ignore this

i fear,

 

you

 

will be

alone.

problematic plastic

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.

inside rectangles

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.

with sadness

sometimes we can hide

it

from each other.

 

that scares me.

greek statues were painted.

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.

the humans have escaped the zoo

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.

having too much money.

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.

cupboards

we’re all just

old cupboards.

 

chipped paint,

with handles worn,

 

and inside our walls,

all scratched and torn.

playing with spoons.

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.

the painter

one works in layers,

one works in shades,

 

but together

they know,

 

the best laid plans,

are painted over some days.

the surgeons

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.

forty years from now

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.”

dream in a dream

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”

diet dr pepper has caffeine?

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.

butchers

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.

passing off your work on a friday

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.

for midsummer calm

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.

inside the red velvet house.

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.

writer's block

experience

is more important,

 

than understanding

the process,

 

to create.

catching

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.

turbulence.

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,

i don’t work,

 

that’s true.

 

i don’t work,

i don’t work,

i don’t work,

 

i want to.

this weekend

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.

risking everything

we risk everything,

 

for a little more love,

for a little more lust,

 

but to us,

that little bit,

is everything.

for the flower on the window

on sad days

like these,

 

i hope my tears

are enough,

 

to help you grow.

the clock stopped at 12:28.

when you threw it at my heart.

 

it’s been like that

since last year,

 

because i’m too afraid

to start it again.

nyquil and kittens

tasting syrup,

it’s burning.

 

brushing

my legs,

on the floor again.

 

sleeping.

 

maybe tomorrow,

i’ll make it to bed.

in new orleans cemetery #1.

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.

sleeping through friday,

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.

sleeping through november,

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.

 

we tripped over stars.

tripping,

over stars.

 

we ignored,

our bleeding feet.

temporary time

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.

at grandmas

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.

lonely loose leaf

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.

halloween sugar

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.

funk and waffles

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.

p b n' j

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?

in infinite boxes.

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.

charcoal thumb print

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.

with time as a weapon.

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.

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