It’s not in the cliché way
you smile, say Chris and Mom “stayed home”.
It’s the picturesque shot of you
walking into church alone.Read More »
My crossroads were a metaphor,
because where was I when I realized the road before me forked?
In the reclining chair,
painting the epistemic situation in the distinctive shades
of sand, sun, and tumbleweeds- nothing but dust and wind on either
side as far as eye could see. And how was I to choose between,
and win or lose or even move?
But that’s the thing about crossroads. You never paint their metaphor
if you find sitting still an option.
It would be a third path, and you would plow on. So,
pressure. Tick, tock.
But my crossroads were a metaphor! I finally realized,Read More »
Once the travel mug tired of journeying at last
and couldn’t even stand to take the paved road home,
Dave lost the dear friend in all its specificities.
But stomp its foot and huff its breath all it wants,
I don’t think that it will stay stagnant long.
Things roll, people shove, and you never have much say
in where you end up, which is not all bad, because
wasn’t the travel mug made to sojourn?
And aren’t our crimes against ourselves along with the rest,
until our selves break or break out into light?
I like to jump.
Jump is the good thing for me.Read More »
After a month of nearly falling off the bottom of the earth,
Ma placed me in my bed, where I woke imagining
feeling wide-eyed, refreshed, wondrous of where I was-
jumping off the bed, landing in flexible splat as impossible
as the dogs I used to try to draw were ugly.
I didn’t really know how dogs’ heads or human bodies worked,
but I wanted a Lisa Frank retriever and my butt to be in the air,Read More »
The thing about having your house burn down
in the 2K’s as a teenager
is you totally lack control. I
know; I can tell.
Because I’ve tried to find clothes
that were cute, clean, and matching,
and warm preferably,
in time to escape the fire
that’s interrupted my shower
with brisk November air.
Yes, the thing about having your house burn downRead More »
You are in my heart, annoyingly-
a ghost I cannot truly grasp,
a crevice nothing else will fit inside.
So I write poetry,Read More »