May 29

Gym Dust: A Moment of Early Morning Observation

There are puddles of cottonwood
on the floor of my vacant high school gym
one cloudy Tuesday morning,
a few countable weeks before summer.

The soft seeds spread out like a thin layer of ocean foam,
churning complacently with the tide,
as I kneel, tip my nose
to the shiny wood,
close my mouth, and breathe in.

The cottonwood smells like new soil, bare feet,
heat lightning, rivers swollen with rain.

Crouching on my knees in the middle
of that open gym reminds me of prayer and of the dying bird
I held a year before in a garage
the color of tears and burning gasoline.

I had washed sticky blood from my hands 
and couldn't look at myself
and was afraid to catch the plague of unintentional fragility.

The first-period bell sounds like an alarm
and the pink metal door adjacent me swings open,
revealing a mass of distraught pre-exhausted ninth graders.
May 20

Storm Drain

The open street smells like a thunderstorm.
I’m not sure where he went
or where I’m going
or why I’m standing here on the damp sidewalk,
watching the sun creep up on us.

It feels good,
like I should’ve done this a long time ago,
like this is what I’ve been missing my whole life.

I want to come back.
And I want it to rain,
even just a little.

I want to see the way it falls
and the way he looks upward
with his mouth wide open. 
May 13

Alacrity - Spoken Word

Here is another video I created using WeVideo!
Written, read, created, and mostly filmed by me
Song: "You're Somebody Else" Instrumental by Flora Cash 

There is sunshine this morning. 
It warps the frost on the window,
melts frozen feathers into my palm, 
dampens the folded cuff of my coat. 
I'm not waiting for anyone. 

This morning there is music resonating
down the hallway at school. 
Someone stands in the center of a room to my right,
mouth open,
dancing with words,
smiling only half as wide as me. 

There's ink on my wrist,
blued from writing late into the night 
when my bare feet refused to walk
in the solitary dark to the cold sink down the hall, 
wash my hands
with frothy soap under endless water. 
May 05

One I Found

I’m waiting for the day
the sun doesn’t rise. 

I’m sure it will be like any other:
cold dew on the grass,
coffee in the morning,
quietly waking in the dark
to pull on thick knit sweaters
and scratchy wool socks. 

I won’t miss it. 

I won’t miss the gradual warmth
and the golden smudge of light
on the floorboards. 

I won’t miss the sun’s flame
methodically lighting the world’s candle. 

You confessed once,
when you thought I was asleep, 
that you tell a lot of lies. 

I couldn’t understand
until now. 

Apr 23


This was supposed to be a poem for me.
At least, it was when I started.

Maybe it's a little ironic
to start with how it wasn't supposed to be started
and tell you anyway. 

You've always had a fascinating
way of turning me on my head. 

I thought I knew what I was doing. 
I thought I understood 
leaving and living 
and what makes me human 
and how to feel infinite 
or happy 
or whatever the word is. 

Ectsasy? Elation?

I am so much more than I thought. 
You have persuaded me into noticing 
and once I start I can't stop.

It's like meeting an old friend 
that has been gone for ages 
and suddenly they're everywhere:
in the same parking lot;
searching for the same book in the same library;
opening the silent door of consciousness in my sleep. 

And this is just the start.
This is just the title page

Apr 21

Spring Blooms

Apr 19


Apr 11


We forget every day to wear
shoes out of the house, especially 
when it is warm
and the sun drips from the sky 
like an overripe mango.

We no longer look both ways
before we cross the street,
or while
or after. 

We are too eager,
too care-free,
too much "go"
and not enough "slow".

"Hold my hand," he says as if I trust him,
as if I ever could. 
"Yes," is not an option anymore. 

We’re our own obnoxious warning signs. 
Apr 01

City 6.24

We are holding up the sun 
when, after the sky is in full bloom,
we contemplate the distance around the Earth,
and how far we are from the equator,
and if we will ever stand on it.

We are the ones you see
out of the corner of your eye
when you stand at the window of someone else's house
and feel like crying and try to stop but do it anyway. 

We are the ones
on top of the building on the corner of Canal Street.

We are the ones you try to find in the middle of the night:
eyes squinting into the black stairwell, 
damp feet on the wooden floor,
try and can't. 

We love to get lost
and never found.