Low Lake

quixotic puddle, a surrounding circled

by sandy ringlets of time under tree trunks

bearing desire, beneath Earthly happenings

below fears each a different shade of brown.


awaiting the hands of the archaeologist

who lives in Earthly happenings but digs

deeper than the laborers of nearby towns

and fills pales with rocky memories to look through later

just to find the round forming tangible time,



which culminates in the rolling stones they release

from their wrinkled fingers and soft brain tissue

as it thinks of what is later

as an idea

through each individual estuary laden sphere of

circled time wheeling life creating characteristic.


Depth Perception

if you were three-dimensional

I would be

congruent, except in an ethereal state

picture gelatin in a blob of self-

awareness that lingers in a bowl for

too long, retracting at the sight of copper

spoons or silverplate ladles, a glorious

green mixture, unsure of an identity

until meeting your lips

Band Practice

a midday march

on a sidewalk 

in a forward motion

which is in itself a feat

in this day and age

to be and move is brave 

and it is healing. 

his saxophone dangling politely

after its booming voice connected

his voice to ours

which is an ancient voice

that makes our voices say, 

“we are all hurting but just keep walking,

keep creating and being, 

keep hoping and dreaming, 

keep connecting and listening,

and we will find our ancient voices on

a midday march”

I Fell in Love with the Dawn


I found what it meant to be deserving

in the whispering communion of yellow morning song.

behind the blinding curtain that would rise

for our most famous star.

each word that I would ever write was waiting there,

right beyond my grasp,

waiting for my grasp.

each heartbeat that had yet to fill up my ear

and every thread that longed to graze my face

was on the backside of the world,



through the spinning wonderment.



Growing Pains

when you come to this place,

you come in hobbling,

on wheels,

clutching your side,

lips pursed and eyes squinted.

filled with dancers, mechanics, truck drivers, and athletes.

experience and age do not exist on a timeline.

you’ll be seen and reassured or disappointed –

the diagnosis given will be : life has been good to you or it has not

it’s assumed that you will leave in a state of lightness,

with a straight gait or a restful face.

when the veil of glass separates at your appearance,

you limp towards a life of hardship,

holding a note that reads,

“confirmation of mortality 1x a day”


The Ghost of January

I stayed a ways behind you,

on the curling tail of a forest on it’s wedding day.

dressed in white,

veiled, but not obscured.

we could have walked hand in hand,

but we held leashes instead,

which was a separate bond in itself.

a bond that said,

“I love what you love” or “I am lonely too”.


and for each step forwards,

we left one step behind,

that held all of what was not held by our hands.





A dream / My Reality

fluent image of my mirrored self,

an expulsion of the wooden building blocks I stuffed into separate spaces

when I wore the pale blue onesie that you purchased for me

while you didn’t hold hands,

and you didn’t kiss.

did you speak of me at all?

was a future of my selfhood ever even blended into the sperm that you shaped yourself around?

unabashedly ignorant and martyred,

I was the jackal in your womb.


when I bolstered myself and courageously leaped onto the water slide

of sunny, desolate Florida,

I thought back to when you first forced me forth.

you were the only water slide I knew,

before I even knew what a bruise would look like,

your milky pool was comfort and seemingly torture

before you decided to take even the slightest of plunges into my side of our kinship.


now, we are both square pieces of glass,

an hour apart.

I want to shatter you until you are the sharp dust of a memory

and then I want to inhale you until you leave

the deepest cuts in my self that I ever

had the guts to bleed.

My Brain is My Womb

we met with my eyes closed, 

rolled into the back of my head,

awaiting the exorcist of adulthood.

you, veiled in a black sheet of stars 

were a bitter child of mine.

subconscious and clay skinned,

my childish fingers formed each blurred limb of your gnarled falsity.

I collected earthworms and quartz crystals and cut into them to draw out

the truth of innocence

on an impossibly bright playground.

all the while you shaped me into a bruise 

that covered even the ground I stepped upon.

the dirt that collected between my toes was a memory 

that I was filthy and would never let go.