11.30.21

What if it’s okay?

To not be a firework

Dancing in the dust

Why can’t I fizzle out?

And simply be air?

Because I’m not

I won’t be —

Something unknown

A pebble on the shore?

I’ll sacrifice my breathing

If I can be so much more.

11.29.21

Don't you run away

from that friendly bumblebee —

it gives you ripe warmth.

11.28.21

It used to be so easy.

Everything just fit.

Neatly packed,

neatly folded,

neatly shared

by my bird

by my bee.

But nature collapses,

because humans are weak.

It all just happened

in the coarse of a week.

I lie in three beds

on three pillows

three seeds.

Mellow yellow flowers

and bright red beads.

Too many colors,

too many sounds —

I'm waiting for sunrises

to burn us down.

11.27.21

All hell breaks loose,

when the clock strikes twelve.

That rotting old pole,

around and around and —

wrapping itself around.

I shouldn't watch my spirit

leave my calloused lungs.

Watching my breaths —

I can't stand.

I can't get on that train.

Bleeding like guitar strings,

watch the marks fade down my back.

11.26.21

The words left unsaid

are the worst of them all —

they taste like copper in

my mouth.

Why did I let them travel

down my veins

like I thought they

would reappear

in my eyes?

The words left unsaid

are the worst of them all —

they shatter off your

quivering lips

piercing my skin

with invisible scars.

You don't know that I carry them with me.

I barely even notice,

the orange marks

you somehow smudged onto my skin.

Alone with my thoughts

I can't recognize your endeavors:

were they of the light?

or were they that dusty orange

sour sour sour.

Let the words float

on the surface of your drink,

or suffer the consequences

and watch me sink.

11.25.21

for some reason

I believe the color that bleeds

from your scalp is

representative of

your secrets.

is the passion

of your skull

really laced

in the locks that

line your cheeks?

my hair has darkened

through the years.

maybe i've become

part of a void —

but the bitter blue

or the yearning yellow

of dyed hair

seems almost like a short cut,

a way to disguise

your truth.

Wonder why they say true colors?

It's because that dye you wear

coats your truth

your raw sihouette.

That dye

you obsessively

reapply

hides your

true hue.

Devious one,

don't point your serpent tongue

at me.

At least I adopted the darkness

and swallowed it whole.

11.24.21

did we ever?

could we ever?

I hate that.

That I have this ability to think

about a future that never came

that never will come

ever.

The past,

I hold it like an orb

This little ball of fire

So uncontrollably reliable:

It was real,

It is real

forever.

But there I go again,

thinking about what could have been —

Will I ever?

— know?

Forever in a moment,

never understanding what I have

when its there.

11.23.21

Cuando yo desperté

Mi alma quiere cantar

Pero las hojas afuera

Dicen: mira la belleza

Mira el sol

Mira la fruta en

Cada árbol —

Cuando yo desperté

No puedo ver tu

Mi corazón expresa

La tristeza de juventud.

11.22.21

is the word I use

To describe the empty feeling

I swallow whenever

I forget it was all just a dream.

But that’s the thing —

It wasn’t all just a dream it was

A mixture of blurry reality

And speckled sips of hope,

I saw the sweetness

In your eyes but —

eyes don’t understand

The odd iambic images

Of my scribbled mind.

I say I’m barren

When the memory is passed

But really I’m full —

Full of light

And it burns

And I love it

And I hate it

And what pains me the most

Is you never knew

How bright your heart beats

And illuminates my creativity.

But if you did

Maybe then I’d be barren

Dry at the knees

Cold in my fingers

Dark in my drums —

I’m sprouting new seeds

I promise,

But the winter has arrived

And how long I’ll survive

Is a question

For the gods.

11.21.21

I thought you needed wings to fly

To run across the air

And defy the gravity

That pulls on our tender

sincerity.

Maybe you just need might.

A light circulating through

the sun-speckled sea light —

Mister Penguin

glides like a bee

sizzling across the watery sheet

And it opens our eyes

to a world lesser known

Where flying in water

Is carved in our bones

But blissfully this Penguin

black and white

Find your wings in the rainbow

Counter darkness with light —

11.20.21

my caged garden

is burning inside,

the icy winds

tighten the suble lining

just breathe

and become the breeze.

but it hurts my

lingering expectations

and the air tastes bitter —

but can’t I avoid this

rotten pinch

if only I accept the oxygen

as the lifeline it always has been

and watch my garden of green

wrap around my bones —

11.19.21

You Should

Go after that inkling of hope

Grasp it with your two hands

Until it bleeds across your knuckles

And begs for air

You should

Tell them

Tell them what kind of

Soup you made last night

Tracing out the words

You’d choke on otherwise

In letter shaped noodles —

I want it

I wanted it

Maybe I should still

want that dream I asked for

But maybe

Maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe the leaves

Fell for a reason

Or for no reason at all

Except that an ending is final

And times won’t stop,

Conserve all the sweetness

Until the very last drop

Maybe you shouldn’t

Pull in your instincts,

Surprise yourself

And let it go

Floating in the dusty storm

Parading from

Sun-filled window panes

Holding you in a cloud

Of rosy warmth.

11.18.21

Sometimes I’m angsty

Sometimes I’m sweet

Sometimes I enjoy all types of faux meat

But are words truly

The words of my heart?

Will finding their meaning

Pull me apart?

Am I really a wandering

Blissful blue cloud

Or am I just visions

lost in a crowd?

11.17.21

Don't let the cinnamon sticks

turn to pepper —

What would I do

without the very essence

of life?

I say don't let them turn

to gray,

but sometimes we don't have control

over the mysterious source

of muted consciousness.

I want an overactive outlet,

the power rushing

into my metallic veins,

Red and blue,

papery yellow,

let the green scream

like Earth's desperate calls —

There's too much want

and not enough "please".

I suppose I'll appreciate the rainbow

and the colors of the breeze.

11.16.21

It's so much easier

to say I'm from

New York City,

a place where all the lights glimmer

where I'd know my way around

moldy pizza crusts

and sidewalks pelted

by pebbles of pretentious people.

But that's not my home.

Not where I was born,

Not where I grew up.

It doesn't have the smells

that coat my heart

with comfort

or

sounds.

At home,

the volume is hushed,

the stars can stretch

across the purple clouds.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The snowflakes enter

without a burnt seasoning.

They just glide

into my bloodstream

like ice skates on a pond.

New York City

is the city of my childhood.

But my childhood rests

in the little green house

just twenty miles West.

11.15.21

My legs hang

off the concrete

platform, the bubbling

blood of the ocean

shouting from below.

I thought I was falling,

the invisible ladder out

of my reach —

but I was wrong.

The pavement was wet

is still

covered in a gray moisture

dissolving the golden puddle

of my past tears.

I've mourned the loss

of swimming in a fountain

of strawberry cider —

Now I wait

until I crave another

fruity drink —

hoping it'll be

just as sweet.

11.14.21

I respect the stars'

wisdom and words.

But sometimes they lie,

like I do on my floor

when it all comes shattering down.

If the pulse

doesn't radiate

across the room,

and the candles don't flicker

when I hold my breath,

the stars have done it again —

It's so lovely,

believing in the light.

Knowing they get it right

sometimes.

But don't let that sparkle

trick your eyes —

or tease

your vulnerabilities.

11.13.21

I have become friends

with the breath

between words;

even though we don't

always get along,

I suppose friends

don't have to like each other.