thursday evening i walk through a marketplace
that smells of warm bread and something
i have no word for yet
figs and wine and the salt of olives
pressed from trees that remember
longer than i do
i have heard there are stairs
broad enough for all of us
ascending toward a mountain
where smoke still rises
from the morning offering
and the faces there
are glad
i have heard the eastern gate swings open
on the seventh day
and something majestic and radiant
passes through the parted crowd
the way water once parted
for a man who also
could not enter
on his own merit
i have heard that even the nations
find themselves falling
not because they are commanded to
but because what else
do you do
when you finally see
what you have always
been reaching toward
and i think about what i have done
with the days allotted to me
how i have taken the holy hours
and spent them carelessly
how i have been handed wine
and poured it into the ground
how many sabbaths i let pass
like strangers i did not invite in
i do not come to this poem
with clean hands
i come the way a man comes
to a door he has no right to knock on
and knocks anyway
because he has nowhere else
to go
because mercy is the only currency
he has left
and even that
was given to him
so i am not asking
to stand beside the King
at the threshold of the eastern gate
i am not asking
to be counted among the holy ones
whose faces glow
with things they earned
i am asking only
for a corner
a closet
a bucket and a mop
let me sweep the outer courts
before the worshipers arrive
let me be the one
who polishes the pavement
where they will press their faces
toward the glory
i will rise before the Sabbath
i will do it quietly
and if i catch one glimpse
of the morning sacrifice smoke
climbing the still air
before anyone else is watching
i will count that
as more than i deserve
i will count that
as everything
and i will plead
not on the merit
of what i have kept
but on the name
of the One
who keeps
and say
LORD
even a janitor
needs somewhere to be
May 3
May 3, 2026 at 10:47 PM UTC
i keep telling myself it was a mountain
how it rose up in me
and it blotted out the sky
how i bent my knees without it asking
if i am honest
if i let the light fall where it refuses to fall
it was never stone
it was a filament
a single trembling thread
drawn across the mouth of a well
and still i knelt to it
i have made a liturgy of bodies
sung myself hoarse at the altar of curves
have mistaken hunger for revelation
again and again
their beauty like a blade
no
like a mirror i could not look away from
even as it unmade me
i said this is love
this is need
i said this is how a man becomes real
but i was dissolving
grain by grain
into the heat of it
there is a moment after
you know the one
when the room comes back wrong
and the air tastes used
and even your own hands feel borrowed
and something in me weeps there
not loud
just a leaking
because i see it then
for one unbearable second
the scale tips
and what i called a mountain
what i worshipped as inevitable
shrinks
smaller
a hair
a single human hair
caught in the teeth of my wanting
and i
gave it my years
gave it my breath
i called it master
i called it god
how small it is
how small i made it large
and there is no view from nowhere
no clean place to stand and judge the wreckage
only this body
this history
these eyes opening too late
the righteous will laugh they say
astonished at the weight they once imagined
but i am not laughing
i am standing here
thread in hand
weeping
because i could have broken it
because it was always breaking
and because i let it bind me anyway
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 10:34 PM UTC
i have been hung up
like something that belongs
on a wall // like something that requires
a nail // a hammer
the particular violence
of being placed
there is a hall
i keep walking
it goes on
the way certain griefs go on
not loudly
only forward
just more of the same pale light
falling on the same pale frames
and i am one of them
i have accepted this
in the way you accept
a low ceiling
you stop noticing it
until you try to stand up straight
the thing about being hung up
is the stillness
everyone walks past
tilts their head
moves on
and you are still there
exactly where they left you
in exactly the position
someone else decided
i should say here
that i let them
i held the nail
i handed it over
said // here
put me somewhere
i cannot reach myself down from
the hall keeps going
i have walked it
in both directions
it does not end
it does not narrow
it grows
more frames more faces
more of whatever it is
we hang on walls
when we want something to mean something
i mean something to no one
specific
i mean something in general
royalty free
from a distance
but
stand close enough
and it is just
dots
i have stood very close
to myself
it is not recommended
what i did not say before
is that i kept going back
to the one who hung me there
kept walking the hall
stopping at the frame
adjusting the angle
as though the problem
was the angle
the problem was not the angle
the problem was that i believed
a wall was the same
as a home
that being chosen for display
was the same
as being kept
and the hall goes on
as i said
as i will keep saying
because the hall going on
is the whole thing
the whole condition
there is no door
i have checked
or there is a door
and i am hung beside it
watching it open and close
watching people leave
and not
wondering
if the light in here
is the same
as the light out there
it is not
i knew when they first lifted me
the way you know a thing
before you know it
the hands were careful
the kind of careful
that is also
a form of distance
i mistook the care for wanting
i do that
i have always done that
turned the gentleness of removal
into the tenderness of arrival
here is the confession
i have been walking this hall
looking for myself
in every frame
thinking // that one
no // that one
as though the hung version of me
would recognize me
as though he would know
the way back
he does not
he is hung up too
we are both just
hanging here
in this hall
that has no end
that has no door i can open
waiting for someone
to walk past slowly enough
to actually look
and i think they will
and i think they wont
and i think this is the thing
about walls
they do not care
which one it is
the frames go on
the light goes on
falling on all of us
equally
beautifully
going nowhere
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 12:07 AM UTC
the familiar orbit
a constellation
circling it
old gravity
a quieter poison
i trade
one hunger for another
one mistake for another
a drifting
every light
i see
in this sky
is something
i ruined
on the way here
a map
made of damage
bearing
my name only
Mar 15
Mar 15, 2026 at 1:38 AM UTC
hush little country dont choke on your name
the syllables glitter with manifest light
sweet land of promise of profit of fame
rock in the dark with your hand on the knife
america cradle of yes and of no
mother of pilgrims and markets and chains
you tuck us in soft with a red white glow
while history hums through the walls in its veins
innocent child with a star on your brow
singing of freedom from sea line to sea
who taught your mouth how to sanctify now
what your hands buried beneath the oak tree
hush now dont startle the dreamers awake
they built you from scripture and stock and decree
cross in one fist and the flag for its sake
washing their palms in performative plea
they say it was never the sermon or law
never the silence that fattened the throne
never the fear dressed in righteous faux awe
only a few who have sinned on their own
but under the floorboards the old stories creak
cotton and contract and blood in the sand
justice is not just the dead who still speak
the living are reaching with unbandaged hand
black bodies orbit the myth like a sun
pulled by a gravity heavy with blame
you call it progress when nothing is done
but rename the wound and retire the shame
america buyer of bright little things
consumer of sorrow you package and sell
you polish your rifles and call them your wings
you market the heaven youre building from hell
rock little nation rock slow in the chair
feel how the past keeps a weight in your chest
pride is a hymn but it thickens the air
when sung over graves you refuse to confess
guilty and glowing and certain and scared
blind in the blaze of your self made design
you swear you were chosen appointed prepared
while washing your hands in a fountain of brine
hush now the cradle is splintered with truth
it carries the child and the tyrant alike
inside you the preacher the cop and the youth
inside you the wound and the will to indict
sleep if you can with the anthem half sung
dream of a kingdom that never was clean
morning is coming relentless and young
and justice is louder than any machine
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 1:14 AM UTC
i saw an old coyote today
or what was left of one
biggest id ever seen
or maybe i only say that now
because death makes everything larger
and smaller
he was hung on a fence post
just caught
skin silhouetted the shape of bone
bone learning to breathe air
wind threading him through the wire
as if finishing what time began
how many seasons did he carry in his ribs
how many ribs counted the winters
empty belly winter
winter belly empty
did he lope across sage and dust
did he sing into a dark that never answered
did he nose through frozen fields
for a scrap of frozen something
meat meaning mercy
mercy meaning meat
he must have been magnificent once
full fur full hunger
yellow eyes bright with the bright of wanting
wanting wanting
and now the sockets
two small rooms
where sight used to live
i think of the mirror
how it keeps a room for my eyes
how it keeps them hollow
how it keeps
this coyote is me
this coyote is me
caught on some small decision
some ordinary wire
a fence i told myself was horizon
a boundary i knew as safety
i tell myself i endured
i call it surviving
i call it striving
but the words thin out in my mouth
and my mouth thins in reply
how many winters have i spent
shivering beside my own life
sniffing at closed doors
mistaking rust for refuge
mistaking trust for refuse
i grew into my bones
i grew and grew
until the growing was only ache
until the ache was the only proof
that i was still warm
and what for
to be found like this
in the middle of nowhere
which is to say in the middle of myself
long dead
not yet fallen
bitter is a small word
it barely covers the bone of it
the way i let myself be snagged
the way i stayed
starving slow
slow starving
waiting for someone
or something
to cut me down
but the wind only passes through
and calls it singing
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 1:15 AM UTC
the tantrum of a child
who learned big words before learning no
i want the world to kneel
and when it does not
i kick god in the shins
then cry about the bruises
there is a wound in me
but it is not the kind that closes
it is rot with a pulse
convincing
i say i am unhealable
because healing would mean
i was wrong about myself
and i cannot survive
another correction
i leave fingerprints on people
that never wash off
i call them accidents
they call them endings
behind me
a museum of scorched bridges
each one labeled
i tried
i meant well
i was hurting
i was hurting
is a blade
i keep using
because it fits my hand
there is blood
yes
not cinematic
not noble
just dark proof
that my feelings have weight
i sentence myself nightly
i am judge jury evidence
self hatred my only honest god
it never lies to me
it only tells me
what i am afraid is true
that i am not broken glass
or a wounded animal
but the hand that threw
and the mouth that justified
and still
somewhere under the ooze
there is a child
holding the knife by the blade
wondering why everything hurts
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 10:07 PM UTC
there is a room in my chest
and the monster smiles with my mouth
it wears my face
so no one believes me
i keep feeding it days
because days keep happening
it chews them into sameness
spits out a mirror
asks me to practice believing
i am so tired
that even my tears feel borrowed
salt from an ocean i cannot reach
i sit on the floor of myself
counting breaths and
wondering which ones are counterfeit
confidence used to be a sound
i press my ear to the silence
and learn nothing
the monster says rest
and means disappear
says quiet
and means obey
i say nothing back
because my voice is a house
after a storm
roof gone
and the rooms open to weather
if there is a future
it is thin as a blade of grass
pushing through concrete
it cuts my finger when i touch it
i bleed a little hope
onto the ground
and feel ashamed of the color
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 1:06 AM UTC
the candles are lit with borrowed breath
and the house pretends to be clean
you call your guests by honorable names
but the walls know what they have eaten
beneath the marble the patient mouths wait
full of secrets you thought were buried
each floorboard a thin white eyelid
each hallway a throat that remembers
the mirrors repeat your excuses
which version of yourself do you believe tonight
the silver learns the taste of your fingers
every curtain is heavy with listening
every staircase loyal to no one
you built your comfort on quiet graves
did you think the dirt was deaf
and believed the dead were polite
believed they would stay where you put them
like furniture arranged for company
but rot is a language
and it travels upward
the careful demons of your making
thin as tax receipts
long as winter hunger
are rehearsing your true name
they have served you well enough
they have carried your plates
they have washed your bright red hands
and they are growing curious
when the last sweet thing is swallowed
when the cellar offers only echoes
they will remember who taught them to feed
do you think hunger has more mercy than you
soon the thin hands you hired
to hold up your heavy name
will learn the shape of your neck
will learn the language of hunger
soon the feast will finish itself
and the guests will look around
for something softer to swallow
you drank from the days of smaller lives
and called the emptiness profit
you licked the salt from tired skin
and learned to crave deeper wells
how much blood counts as reasonable interest
now the cup is empty
and still you are thirsty
and still you demand more
how much more do you imagine exists
justice sits blind in the parlor
counting the cracks in her scales
tired of mending what you keep breaking
how long did you expect her to wait
so she leaves the door unlatched
and turns her face to the window
what enters next needs no invitation
it is a footstep on the stair
it is breath behind the door
no mansion is deep enough
no garden wide enough
to hide the echo that is coming
cannibals at a bare table
chewing the final heirloom
finding nothing left to eat
but each other
Jan 20
Jan 20, 2026 at 12:50 PM UTC
america says
look how honest we have become
we do our sins outside now
in daylight
with name tags
and livestreams
and kevlar vests
this is not corruption
this is efficiency
we do not hide the knife
we sell it in the gift shop
engraved with freedom
and a twelve month payment plan
we learned the dark was unnecessary
once we realized nobody cared
so we dragged the monsters into the street
and found they already had jobs
and pensions
and podcasts
and offices
in places where power
corrupts absolutely
listen
this is how a nation saves time
it teaches its children to midwife the fire
instead of trying to put it out
to birth destruction so
we dont have to look at it happening
we call it realism
we call it growth
we call it being done pretending
nostalgia is a loaded gun
passed hand to hand
everyone swearing it is empty
because it belonged to their father
we miss a past that never existed
and hate anyone who remembers clearly
the blind have declared vision intolerant
they say stop staring
stop pointing
stop making us feel seen
so the seeing gouge their own eyes
to be polite
to be safe
to be loved
and we clap
because nothing frightens us more
than someone who can still describe the room
america i am so tired
my mouth is full of broken teeth
from biting my tongue into a shape you like
my back is bent
from carrying history
and being told it never happened
you say love it or leave it
as if love were silence
as if leaving were possible
this is my rebuke
soft enough to quote
sharp enough to cut
empty enough to echo
you will wear it on a shirt
you will chant it without hearing it
you will call it brave
because it does not ask you to change
and still
i write
with this hollow pen
wired straight to the hollow place
because even now
even here
someone is listening
and pretending not to see
Jan 10
Jan 10, 2026 at 2:57 AM UTC