Poems

In no particular order. In fact, there is no order. You get one random poem. Go ahead, reload the page. Roll the dice.

Empire Builder

They call this train the Empire Builder | | each gilded town along the vast Imperial artery [ a hurried disruption of wood, and I consider , if cities are wounds or organs ? Maybe each border is marked by hatchet trails / veins, a main street where the grain of 'worn wood ' hits the air and bleeds sap ? I grasped a hatchet from my dad's army pack when I was younger ; filled with grim purpose of building my own empire - violently hack empty space from bleeding parts - and finally, with fire in my heart : chopped the roots of ancient trees ~ that I believed had no grand purpose , that I thought were just a nuisance ../ But it is not useless; every poisonous heart can seed and sprout ' or finally be dried and pounded out for healing tincture " and maybe this punctured canvas of a town can still be left to dry - pulled and tied and stretched and broken up until ] the streets are garden rows, sustaining a heart rebuilt \ the silt glimpsed from the far jailbar windows | | within each car of the Empire Builder .

Playing with Fire

My love and I are planning a trip into the forest, where we'll be, honored houseguests of greenest geology: and I will sing sweet campfire stories of fine dust and good company, leaving California behind. The Golden Coast lit up by blazing sirens of force, caught up in their hot impunity. As we book our tickets, she says to get insurance, so our plans won't go up in flames. But when we get to the campground, I will swim beneath those red woods, I will give them to my dearest, these tender trees that survive each fire/ to make a home beneath their boughs, and tell our stories over s'mores. Our vacation: a mirage I see on the pavement, beneath each heat wave's satin sun. 'hottest summer on record', again. 'worst wildfire season', again. while I have to push beg buttons just to cross the street, and find some shade to rest in. She coughs on the call, quietly. the smoke billowing toward her to cook her lungs, as bombs blow up over Ukraine she whispers stories to feed the flames; And her voice sounds like: the felling of forests- the fear of fire- flirting with fascism- fluttering of firearms, My friends fight for housing, amid a temperature spike, and I keep wondering if the next body I see in the street will be their scorched bones cooling on concrete - She dials me in a fit of fervid coughs, the forests fall from Bolsonaro's edicts, and pressures erupt to protests in town as cinders catch in her chest. An asthma attack takes her to hospital- the bill is as high as the ambient temperatures. in the parking lot where I stand; my phone is hungry for her call: Nine-thousand, two hundred fourty-eight houses - gone. Homelessness holds her court and judges; wildfire feeds the waters we had/ planned/ to visit- The flames flicker, luff, and lull. I take a breath/ clear of smoke/ save these hands from scoring with fire. and wish, know, that art. - art can snuff it: the burning of more than trees.

The Orchard

The taste of transformation, finally translated. Trouble all my boundaries: why I build this barricade, brick by sodden brick when every sculpture stands alone as beautiful as ever? A poem is like an orchard. Cultivate each word. Bring sentences to fruit - step gently on the earth and feel the sequence of each tiny bead of moss. "Stop Growing-", I will say aloud - to empty space, and grant myself: A poem is like an orchard. I've written all I can, and when the trees are planted then it starts To grow, and while the growing is the lovely part it needs must end, find balance in the system, then To set the stage for final acts: Open doors, Topple brick, Break this lonely barricade, an orchard cannot live alone, as beautiful as every tree may be and though I do not need more trees, or land, or walls, or brick, these poems begin more beautiful because of birds that hop from limb to limb. Growing may be lovely, but growing is the easy part - I'll share the words from every tree. I need your help to chop them down. To grow enclosed is not to grow at all.

Skipping

i skip rocks along the shore for the first time at the summer camp beach; i flirt with the lake, i kiss the surface with quartz, i whirlpool of feelings brushed by geology; i witness from my only boy friend of the age - how to shunt mountains into a pot of water. i teach my ex to skip rocks for the first time at the endless city's ocean; i dig for sharp stones to toss into pliant waves, i throw echoes of destruction to infinity, i incendiary a soul; i incinerator this polished crystal - all molten light from crackling. i discover with my brother that rocks can skip on sand as well as water; i hammer the earth with algae skulls, i break soil and grit with ball bearings, i tanker and fire; i tyranny that this rock will keep land-skipping - but then it finally stops. i skip class to help collapse the systems of injustice all around; i crash upon piles of viscous pebbles, i press myself to the mouth of the river, i solidarity deeply in love; i storm-surge staring down boulders - queer bodies halting a rock.

Baklava

in the wake of it all, after capital's fall: i will lie down with you in the garden we've grown with our sweet picnic lunch and there we will eat the baklava made in the kitchen we've shared with our family found amid the tumult; and if: you wish it, i'll teach you how to count the stars: as many above as ways you can teach me to roll out the dough: we'll learn from each other - with baklava on our lips.

Love Beyond the Sidewalk

They render: love beyond the sidewalk, the type i can't contain. Take pleasantry with multitude, but all i ever hear is pain... Ask me: walk outside the boundaries, holding still my hand. But i will not invite the ruin of everything I've ever planned... They call from: deep within that darkness, the unexplored asphalt. Their cries are barely heard by us who live our tired lives without... Yet: they say this is our history, a pride you cannot tame. To stand up from the cobblestone is right there in their name... They see: the face i make when listening, temptation almost there. A world without these systems that destroy without a care... But then: What if others see me? What if I'm labeled as their own? Their bravery shows pain beyond the whole of what I've known... I wish them: love beyond the sidewalk, care beyond this heart, The bounds of me too narrow yet for all that they may quell or start.

lying today in the shadow of you i finally conclude i don't like fucking and it's not a you thing just when i taste light it burns my tongue thank you for clarity shining one

Why am I not Singing?

Whenever I see that staggering man, and watch him carefully rub his wrists, then hear his slogging sentences, sharp where they meet broken teeth, ears tuned to sentimentality, tugging his wool coat against the cold, I am regretfully reminded: that Anything you do enough becomes a skill, and that any skill either makes money or - is art. And this truth eats at my bones, makes bare my burning flesh, all my confidence in cold is shattered, as I gulp down words to simmer in the moment, teeth clattering in time with chains, my hands shake with tethered fear, find me hiding all my skills or selling them: For only this: If a man with calluses, and ancient scars can sling spitball sentences, and we call it an art. Why am I not singing?