he steps out
into the tepid

ambivalent
evening air

the envelope
into the out-

going mail slot
collect the junk

mail ad papers
of an era

already gone
the sky dark

listless clouds
neighborhood

mute asleep
he pauses for

a numb minute
a dog’s long

whiney bark
in the house

he washes the
ink residue

from his
aging hands

I hear them again,
the waves lapping at the shore

The tide seeping in,
gradually roaring louder

This isn't right,
it shouldn't be time

The moon doesn't decide
this ocean's fate, though

So it surges wild,
unpredictable and impossible

Lapping at the shore
of my brain, caked in sand

The sun should've been
too strong to feel this cold,

But the wind carries the waves
and a warning I can't ignore

And I know I can hear them,
even feel the salted spray,

Yet I turn my back to the waves,
and break the ocean's rule

They may just finally take me,
and I may just let myself go.

it’s sad to say
that nowadays
a smile
is more often
used
to hide depression
rather than
express
happiness.

I’ve only ever seen two outcomes
in terms of meeting people:
you’re either betrayed
or forgotten about.

and sometimes I’d rather take
the malicious stabbing of bad faith
over the slow waltz with the long knife.


that’s all.

You are worthy:
not for what you carry,  
but for how you rise  
when the weight is unseen.

You are worthy:
in the quiet moments,  
when no one claps,  
and still you choose kindness.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Not the voice that doubts,  
not the silence that stings,  
not the mirror on a hard day.

You are stitched from stories  
that survived the fire,  
braided from breath and belonging,  
woven with wonder.

You are worthy:
as you are,  
as you were,  
as you will be.

Let no one tell you differently.  
Let the poem remind you.  
Let the earth echo it back.  
Let love say it louder.

Dear Algebra,
Please stop asking us
To find your X.
She has left
And she will never return,
And don't ask Y.

-Anonymous

By Geof the cheeky breakfast bard

I cracked at dawn beneath the weight
Of choices scrambled on my plate.
Should I be poached, or softly fried?
Do I conform, or yolk with pride?

The bacon mocks with seasoned flair,
“Why not sizzle, if you dare?”
Yet toast just sits, all butter-faced,
Avoiding life, slightly disgraced.

I whisk myself with pinch of thought:
Am I the meal, or just a plot?
The fry pan hums with heated ache,
What if I’m real, but hard to bake?

The waitress pours me existential tea
“Sweet or bitter? Your choice,” says she.
And so I stew, both brave and bland,
In life’s great brunch, I understand.

I’m not just food for fleeting flings,
I’m breakfast served with questioning things.
So tip your cook and raise your glass,
To sunny-side truths that boldly pass.

My little boat and I,
tossed like a juggler’s
eggs, then into the sea,

and as I stagger onto
the beach I see her,
June, my next door  

neighbor who is 95
years old, but somehow
now looks 25, reclining

under the blackest night
sky, as she says, You
survived, the last three

folks went under—and
if you’re going to speak
keep it under 100 syllables,

past that it’s just babbling—
so I sit next to her,
she holds my hand,

my mind goes quiet,
and I can’t think of
anything worth saying.