Distance measured in miles
is no more true than
rain measured in raindrops

Across the atlantic
I am no closer to you
than across the dinner table

For music is not made lyrical
by notes on a page
nor speeches by words spoken

Every inch between our hands
is a lifetime unspent

And every word unsaid
an eternity wasted

Kneeling by another’s choice,
shackles stretch from my hands to my neck,
as I sit in the coffee shop on main street.

I can feel him approaching,
the one who will cut my tongue.
I picture him with fire in his eyes,
with horns sharp as blades and
avarice spilling from his ears.

Not one is safe,
not even in trade
for he will slice their hands off too.

Inspiration stripped bare as bony hands
form a necklace I am forced to wear,
with questions asked
came profession stolen.

My curiosity procured one line
as writer’s block fogged cerebral prowess,
out of his greed-dripping teeth
came words deeper than human ability.

“The moon forgot to rise, but I waited anyway.”

Bound and thrown into the basement
labeled creativity,
we were left to starve
as into his unpaid hands
trees began to wither.

When I miss you,
I read the poetry you send me.

I start by running
my tongue through the words,
in the space between the letters,
making sure to hold each sentence
between my teeth to
not waste a single drop of flavor.

I then take each page and
hang it up to dry,
so the words don’t bleed off
when I’m done tasting them.
I wring out each tear and
replace them with gentle touch,
to preserve your craft for
years to come.

Once dry it is easy to
pull the stanzas from the clothesline,
and to burrow under each line,
laying my head on the period
and finding warmth in the
way you tell me
you love me.

Your words sketch a map and
X marks the treasure
I find in us.

It is easy to reach out my hand
and find yours in the darkness,
when your poetry is there to
guide the way.

I went ring shopping for my girlfriend’s grandma.

Well, it wasn’t for her grandma,
it was for her and I,
and yet I have
her grandma to thank.

Life is so cruel
because I just wanted
her to see us marry and
yet cancer was the reason
I knew I needed to buy a ring.

I thought maybe God would see
us ring shopping and decide that
our love was enough to
scoop her grandma into his hands,
but obviously life isn’t quite that kind.

But the wedding is near
and the cancer is knocking
on the door that I wish would stay
open forever.

Except, if you were to ask me,
the real wedding happened
on the day I asked
my girlfriend’s grandma for
permission to spend the
rest of our lives together.

Tears were shed and hugs ensued
and if that isn’t at the
heart of matrimony
then I don’t know what is.

But that simple question
to my girlfriend’s grandma,
and the even simpler
yes, of course
she answered, left me a
married woman that day.

I see her now
in dragonfly wings,
hear her whisper of approval
and laughter in the silence they create.
There will never be a time
I will see a dragonfly
and not believe she is
stopping by to say hello.

So when I walk down
the aisle, and my fiancée’s
grandma has an empty seat at the altar,

I know the wedding
has already happened,
and that my wife’s grandma
was there to pick out the ring.

At no point did I know where
the night would take me,

That’s how I knew I was exactly
where I was meant to be.

Thinking back on it,
it wasn’t the all nighter
or the 1 am drive through fiasco
that made me remember that day,

Or the light pink lacy bra
we made the one man wear,
or the short time I spent driving a
car— wearing rollerblades— down
the midnight street.

No, surely it wasn’t the
concrete I slept with my
back pressed against or the
4 am alarm so I could catch the sunrise.

To be honest, I’m not actually
sure why I remember that day.
I don’t think any one of those moments
stuck out more than the others.

And 30 years down the line,
chances are I really won’t
remember those events.
But I will never forget how those people made me feel.

My life wasn’t changed that day.
But now I knew one thing more—

Life isn’t changed, but it is defined by
small moments experienced
with big people.

I wish I had a writing process.
If you would have asked me a
month ago, I would have told you
my process is
Write when I feel like it.
So why then, for the past 3 weeks,
have I felt like it, and then every
word feels like it has taken
a surprise vacation from my brain?

I hate writing.
Let me rephrase,
I hate saying I’m a writer,
then having nothing to show for it.
Where have all the words gone?

Even now, as I type this from my
thumbs while walking to a class
in Spain, I feel the weight of
unwritten words in the space
below my diaphragm.
I am in the most beautiful
city in the world and I
can’t get inspired for the life of me—
and here I am writing about writer's block.

How pretentious.

I hate being a writer,
It feels as if as soon as I gave
myself that title, my brain knew it had
to humble me so that I would stop saying
I am a writer,
And start saying
Oh, I just like to write sometimes.

Is it all not just for show?
Do I not just write to tell people that I do?

I’ve lost sight of the meaning
of why I write in the first place.
Let me use this rant
as a way to get my
head on straight and to
grab myself by the ankles
And start at square one.

I used to write about fun things,
like my best friend’s birthday party.
Just for the sole reason that
I had fun and felt loved
And I cared about them
So much that I
Couldn’t help but write a poem.

Do you know how that feels?

To feel so strongly that
The only outlet is to write.
I guess that is where
the idea of my writing process came from.
And the key to getting my words back.

I will chase that feeling,
the overwhelming poetness
feeling until all I can do
Is write, and write once more.