Too many stem cells,
People metamorphosizing
Into versions of themselves:
passport photos
and feigned smiles—
Do they smash mirrors
when they are alone?
Does the pitch of their voice
Tell them that something
is wrong?
Do they see the seasons
change in their face
with every interaction,
The snow melting
into burnt sienna leaves?
We don’t need more
Chameleons in this world,
If only we could be satisfied
with our single souls

Is it in the strength
of our bones
That make some
able to stand up
and easily
defend themselves,
Stating assertive words
and walking off
without glancing back--
While others sit meekly,
Laughing off the unease
as a beguiling face
says everything
they want to hear--
Not knowing how
They could retreat
From the situation?
Or is it a choice,
to replace our joints
With mettle
and forget
the complacency
Of our old selves?

There was a weight
Of empty history
pressing on my heart,
Building plotlines
And extravagant arcs
in my mind--
I looked at the span
Of golden laughs
and pristine paper,
Frowning at the absence
Of stains
--Because shouldn’t I
Have dark spots
And redacted portions
like everyone else I know?
Was I just waiting,
Building up to something,
That would pour gasoline
On my bundle of flowers
That had bloomed
For so many years?
Was I to become
a fiery mess of cinder stems
And insubstantial ashes?
Maybe then, I could offer
Some guidance
That came from a place
of experience.
Rather than
Philosophizing off of
Flimsy observations--
Why are my struggles
so subtle, my life
A suburban dream,
And my past
an overcast sky
With no tempests churning
Through my memories?
I watch the dew,
The swing of the wind,
And only see misfortune
In the stillness before
a storm

Look at the time,
Its right on your wrist--
How could you have missed
That one little moment?
It seemed so very big
But to you,
I’m only a showman--
With nothing but lists
Of commands
And tired jazz hands

Stop thinking
about the phrasing—
How do you see it?
There is a reason
That lamppost looks 

Like an ‘E’,
A reason that

There is a woman
in the wall—
Do not pass off
These imaginings.
—Isn’t it beautiful
To notice something
no one sees?
And now,
Your description,
can be the light
Shining
On so many faces,
and Waking up
their dormant
Imaginations

When I think of a field,
Covered in dew,
Blanketed by night
And a smattering of stars,
I think of you--
Lying outstretched
In a copse of grass
Beside me,
Pouring out our hearts
To our lord and savior,
Jesus.

A somber corner--
It’s too dark to see
My form huddled there.
I sat alone at lunch,
Waiting, side-eyeing
The lonely souls on
Benches around me.
Was I truly surprised,
When none of them
Approached me?

Somehow, the air
Grew less dense, &
My words quivered
Less, when I trusted
That, perhaps, the
Downcast eyes and
Gangly frames, full
Of feigned belonging
And misguided hopes,
Only needed a voice
To come and ask a
Genuine question of:
“Do you know your
Savior's love?”
“Do you see a face
In the stars?”

“What do you think of
When you zone out at
The wall, and your gaze
Glasses over?”
Nobody asked me
Anything other than
Silly, scandalous remarks--
But I learned not to respond
And seek out those who were
Willing to sit on tin roofs &
Contemplate the reasons
For moral midnight suns,
And Jesus' love, instead.

The weight of generations
Stuttered his steps--
Young legs, agile mind,
An intimidation
To those new to him.
But in small moments
of deeply anchored words
and acts of casual kindness,
The teddy bear of his heart
Was shown underneath.
His hands fidgeted with a knife
Constantly, a butterfly
Flittering through his fingers--
was that the speed of his thoughts?
What did he think, when he wandered
Through creeks of God’s creation?
He kept his hair long, as if afraid
To release the past,
But he clearly showcased
The Lord’s word on his back, deaf
To the voices that rebuked him.
Fluent in rolling jests, but also
Drawing wisdom as if from the earth
I thought he was talking to me. . .
One time. . . but I can never seem
To look people in the eyes.
Who is he, Lord?
I can only see
People as half alive
Without Your guidance.

I am Loved,
a truth that sometimes hurts,
I am Scared
something I loathe to admit
And I am Yours,
a fact that gives me strength
To say all these things

Marshmallow ice sifting through air,
sorrowful caws splitting it,
Like coal sinking in water--
The sky is white satin,
And these walls feel insubstantial,
Like I might pass right through
If I decided to lean on them

Laughs marooning on the shore
The wind tried to drown them
But the sea only wanted more

Where was I when you were talking to me?
Moon-like dreams, but the side no one sees,
The harpooned surface taking hit after hit
To stay pretty.

Fields in Albany
May seem wrong
And inconcrete--
but so are my thoughts,
my sugared reality
With rows and rows
of half-bloomed daisies--
Some flicker out of reach
But with so many,
how can my eyes but deceive me?

My mind harbours its own salutary neglect,
Disregarding the rapidness in my chest,
The perspiration on my skin,
Does it not see how these thoughts
Are affecting it?

My thoughts are frantic
Over acts I committed,
small things,
tiny,
Are they even strange
in the eyes of the receiver?
Or am I imagining my fault
In something with
wide-eyes,
and genuine curiosity?
My mouth betrays me.
I convince myself daily.
But is it merely my rumination,
The after effects
of insecurity and faulty reason,
That make me strangle myself
With doubt and worry?

Wings are unnecessary.
We do not need them
To leave the nest.
They add a flight of risk,
A freedom full of aesthetic
--But perhaps
It is more poetic
To dig your beak
Into the cypress,
Lowering yourself,
With each wood chip
A hole in the descent
To unfeathered freedom.

His smile broke apart his face, after the years.
There was a slowness to the way he moved,
An energy that slowly waned--
Even when he reassured all he was alight,
His flames appeared to have died out--
Yet, none saw this, until his body lay dry
And lifeless in a wooden crate--
The light leaving his skin
And ruining the illusion
That had taken him a lifetime to create.

One day, unseeming,
The babbling brook
Stopped speaking--
She ducked her little head
And sunk beneath
The rocky pebbles,
Hoping to listen
And find out what the trees
Had been saying--
Now that she wasn’t
Intercepting them.
But, in doing so
The pacemaker of her stream
Died out and stopped beating.

I often think,
when scrimmaging
Among traffic,
that the city seems to
Swallow you.
Isn’t it strange,
how some people
Find that comforting?

Calm yourself down, child.
They spoke in gentle tones
Words suppressed, mild
Their reassurances
Sank uselessly like stones.
My fingers flicked away
Everything they claimed
To own--
Broken bones, a shriveled soul;
Who is a child
If not a fully inflated balloon,
Full to the bursting
Before scandalous wild
And shaking sorrow
Maliciously chipped away
Their countenance,
Puncturing the elastic
Until the vibrance
Lay in a thousand
Stretched pieces

That’s not what I meant,
How come erasers
don’t offer recompense?
Should’ve used a pencil, not a pen,
As I tried to make sense
of the contents of my head--
Fumbling with my hand,
Trying to use my left,
To craft an illegible land
I am bound to forget.

Blanketed by chimney sweeps
And coal dust the color
Of wilted childhood innocence,
I sat before the fireplace,
Crisscrossed, wondering
If my tears were enough
To put out the burgeoning flames
And clean the filth on my skin
Yet, I knew, only One’s blood
Could wash it away

There was a resurgence of relief
Deep in my chest,
My body settling in my seat,
The cogs in my brain slowing--
But then I looked at the time
And saw that I was already late
For the next task
I had to complete.
Do the challenges never end?
How do we strive for peace
In a society that doesn’t condone it?

I fumbled as I fell--
I waited for the ground,
And frowned
When it did not come.
I had failed so miserably
Yet, it frightened me
To know that I could
Fall still more egregiously--
A desperation seized me
To meet the bedrock
And stand on my own

Two feet.

A wrangled diaphanous existence--
I swam through window-panes,
Staring blankly at apartments.
Was my hand always this pale?

A slow capillary refill, a body
not worth the stale mass
I occupied within hollow walls.

Staring at this paper, 

I can barely breathe--
The prose shows too much of me.
Hiding behind these leaves of ink,
Is a person who barely speaks
Except through crumpled sheets
Of muffled lines, weak at the knees.
Where does my cursive lead?
To an illegible land of pain and grief?

I hope I have not been unkind,
Or muddled the world
With swine-like words.
Put my life on rewind;
Moonwalk my shoes
Back to the first time
I saw your eyes---
Uncertain, but kind
Did genuine disgust
Scare you away?
What can I say
To convince you
It was all a lie,
A scathing mask
Plastered on my face,
Always trying to dissuade
Unwelcome emotions
From broadcasting
Through the way
I say your name?

Give me the reins--
This terrain feels
unbearably unsafe.
Dusk on your face,
The prairie dogs chase us,
Nicking the horses--
I’m forced to admit
side saddle was a bad choice.
The sun divorces
The smoky sky,
I felt the saddle slip
straight to the side.

The man’s neck craned eerily
Over his shaking cup of coffee,
As if the bones in his neck
Were disjointed, hanging loosely
There was a distance to his eyes
As if they were thinking, thinking
But never quite seeing things
I kept my distance, like most others,
But he insisted on talking,
Mumbling ravaged thoughts,
As if he didnt see the frightened
Posture and body language
Of all those around him

It’s funny how our self-doubt
Is the basis of poetry
And it’s even more humorous,
How that is the very thing
We have to get past
To write it.

How do you know when someone
Is meant to be in your life?
Is it a feeling, an ever-present,
glowing “yes,” that sings?
Or is it a subtle voice,
One barely daring to speak,
noting how gentle he stands,
how your posture lightens
When he enters the room?
Is it the kindness of his hands,
or the intentionality of his words?
His voice is rolling hills,
quiet and genuine,
But loud and boisterous
When he needs to be.
A serene peace,
a deep understanding
Of where his feet should be
Standing and direct,
yet never raised,
Or sitting and patient,
waiting for another soul
to sit beside him and ask:
“So who’s this Jesus?”
I want to be that person.
but is that seat filled?

Am I supposed to sit
in a different row entirely?
Lord, what is this wall,
this barrier, blocking me
From connecting?

They ordered velocity at the top of the list,
Pure speed the most high of achievements.
She was young, a famed prodigy
But her talents were no longer relevant
When her limbs lengthened
And her skin began to lose definition
For who wants anyone ordinary?
If only you can race to the goalpost,
swing your flag, and keep running
Quick, quick, because time
And other’s disappointment
Is chasing at your feet.
But when that day finally comes
Where you can no longer continue

At that break-neck speed,
And people cease
To acknowledge your feats,
Will there be anything left
In you to keep striving?
Or have you burned out too quickly?

Silence comes in so many shades--
Those of blue things unsaid,
or honeyed marigold,
Dancing around our heads.
There is the umber of dark,
of hearing nothing,
Yet sensing eyes in the smog
--and the sterile white,
of trepid understanding.
I value silence above all things.
Because, in it, one voice speaks
He reaches out, quelling the shades
To one of a deep pink,
An affection so rich,
That words cannot begin to express
how it fills him.
So, he shows it through silence.

She never met his eyes.
it was not intentional,
Yet she knew it was not right.
Perhaps she was afraid
That once he saw the trellis
To her mind, he would climb inside
and realize she was a fraud.

Inspiration overflows
The edges of a lephrechaun’s
*** of gold. And it vanishes
As frequently, as does
The end of a rainbow.

[Impatience. Uncertainty.
How do you know when it's done drying?]

I could smell the asphalt
As the road was paved,
A perfect rendition
Of all I hoped to achieve.
Did I step too early,
Making indents,
That could not be removed?
Did I stand by, as a storm
Passed through, and
Knocked over trees
Onto the drying ground?
Or was I the storm,
Taking chainsaws
To the cypress trunks,
Muddying the path
I had anxiously anticipated?
And was it that very nervousness
That made me finish
Before I had even started?

My eyes were deep holes,
Boring into him,
Mouth sluggish as it
Searched for the words;
But they were malformed,
They were broken limbs,
Unable to be righted
So, I pulled out a pen
And placed the paper
in his hands. Read this.

I spoke slow, measured
Because written word
Was yet to fail me
Compared to the treachery
Of my weighted tongue

When we look at the formative years
Of our lives, in docile innocence,
We see so many faults—
Things we must fix, or else
We risk living our whole lives
on repeat. Is it too hard to think,
That sometimes, we change
Too much, and end up so far
From any semblance of good,
That we are worse than before,
As we were in our youth?

My own disobedience
Trailed behind me
In a squeaky red wagon,
Tired and rusting,
Burdened from its
Heavy accumulation
of grief and self-criticisms.

Blasphemy,
He had a whole page
Of facts about me--
An entire biography
I had written myself
From blabbering.
But when I set down
To write his,
Only a name
Was scrawled in ink--
Kind words? A bright face?
But what did he look like
When the moon only shone
On glass fragments,
And the air turned dark
From the absence of voices?
I saw Jesus in his heart;
He spread his abounding love
By simply talking with those
Who were looked down upon.
But besides his acts from afar,
What do I know that he has told me
In hushed, timbre tones,
Sober with intentionality?
Shame-faced, I think
“Nothing.”