A totalitarian mindset—
A fountain full of coins,
Weeping and tarnished. 

There was acid in the water,
Flowing over the glittering

Gold metal, ridding it
Of its brilliant color—
Why do we place all
Of our wishes on one coin
In a singular fountain?

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.

Open my heart, Lord—
You do not need to
Surgically split it,
Or probe the pieces—
You know it inherently,
Without looking,
Every breath’s origin
Lies in you,
And it beats steadily
In your cupped hands—
I have never felt more
Peace in this world
Of broken smiles
And warped intentions,
Than when I trust in your
Image and your plan.

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?

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.

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.

Raining questions and

An umbrella of answers--

They roll and drip

Down the sloped sides,

Reaching one conclusion

As they are absorbed

Into the ground.

Jesus Christ does not

Dispel the questions;

He encourages them

And answers in gentle

Tones, unaltered by the

Torrential downpours.

What if I question myself?

What if who I thought I was. . .

Isn’t true anymore?
I don’t know If I can bear
The knowledge that I am,
And always have been,
A slick-tongued chatterbox.
Are my words only half-formed,
Unsure of themselves,
Even as they go into the world
As daggers, myself unaware
Of all the harm I’ve caused others?
My words have always been few. . .
I never meant to. . .
It seems my values have become
Optional—I cast a blind eye
To all the things that I do,

And disapprove of—
I wish I could be intentional
Instead of flustered and
Nonsensical when asked
Simple questions—
Is this why I am bad at chess?
I cannot see ahead,
I try to play smart and only
End up in a castled prison--
I am checkmated by my own
wide-eyed carelessness.

My fingers have started to prune
And my eyes have begun to dull.
I look at the ***** bath water
And wonder if I’m getting old,
Or if I have only sat in stagnant
Water for too long, waiting for
It to clear, waiting for the power
To go out despite knowing that
All this time, I had the choice
To stand up and drain the tub.

There was not much
Color left in me—
My cheeks were sullen,
Translucent in the sun--
And my hands seemed
To be incapable
Of any and all things.

I sat in despondency,
Letting my skin turn
To the muffled grey
Of radio waves
And confused voices.

Where was I?

I was working toward
The tide that had
Already pulled backwards,
Away from my feet—
And would not swell again
Until my legs had long
Stopped working.

I am buried in sand
On a littered beach,
Surrounded by the
Plastic waste
Of my past discrepancies.

Bobble heads on teetering shelves,

There are so many eyes, looking


Down on me. I try to reach up to

Still their shaking heads, but even


When I jump, I cannot seem to reach.

I am only a mesh enclosure,
Weighed down by the rocks
Of my heavy soul.
Stones with engravings
Of my regrets and thoughts,
Pebbles written with “love”
And others “lost.”
I am made of brittle rocks,
Hunching under the weight,
breaking as I continue to walk.

The gramophone shuddered
As unfamiliar voices swirled
Through its wallowing pipe,
Wondering when it grew so
Croaky, so old, so unlike itself.

The metal protested
As you twisted the bulb
Into place.

It screamed, not wanting
To light up, preferring
Darkness.

Without it, we could not see,
But that did not change its
Preference.

Despondency resided in
The shadows of a high
Ceiling.

It needed your stubborn,
Caring hands to change its
Perspective.

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

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.

Every movement of his eyes
Was a cozenage—
A way to survey the world
Without dilating his pupils
Enough to share his thoughts.

I ran myself to the ground,
Desperate to uncover
What it was those eyelashes
Framed, sub rosa—

And now I walk the earth
On unstable fissures--
Waiting for the secret
That is not mine
To become my downfall.

I cannot bring myself to overcome
The smiling creature of doubt
Sitting pleasurably in my mind—
His hands rest on his lap,
Teeth on full display as
He watches the darkness
Overcome my expression,
Falter my typing hands,
And end the ambition
I arduously work toward.

All we’re living for. . .
With time, does that
Statement degrade?
Do we tweak it, here 

And there, justifying
The smallest changes?
Like an engine, pulled
Apart, piece by piece,
And re-assembled with
Shiny, new parts that
Have never been tested,
Do we remember the
Original, or have we
Burned the blueprints?
“I choose Jesus.” He
Thinks that the cross
Below his collarbone
Is enough, that it saves
All of the choices he
Never brings to God--
Is it weighing on him?
He uses scripture as a
Means to his own end,
But Jesus knows his
Heart, and He does not
Want a necklace--He
Wants well-intentioned
Thoughts & choked
Words that he cannot
Speak aloud to anyone
Else—He wants him
To see that his back is
Turned, that his hand is
******, & that he faints
To ask what his true
Motivations are. A
Cross necklace does
Not disguise a failing
Heart--and God only
Asks what it is he's
Living & fighting for?

Can I hold on to this laugh
A little longer?
Can I cover it with my body,
Like a child under raining
Debris, ensuring
It survives?
They are so far & between,
How can I remember this
When my frown
Grows deep?
Let me shield this golden
Laugh, preserving it,
Even after its utterer  
Is long gone.

Hit the mat, hit the gravel,
Fall on your face, get up
Again and again; you’re
Bleeding and torn, your
Hair falls around crooked
Shoulders, and you shake
As you stand there—where
Has the enemy gone? You
Look at your fists and only
See shards of glass—looking
Up, you meet your own eyes. 

Mirrors huddle all around,
Broken and crying blood,
But you could have sworn
That they were real people,
That your fist had connected
With a human jaw, and as
You watch, the mirrors repair
Themselves like a jagged
Smile; and you know that
its time to fight again.

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?

The leather belt trailed
Behind him as he walked.
It dragged on the floor, as if
Weary from a long day’s work.
Was it tired of hearing kid’s
Scream? did it wince with
Every hit, wishing it
Didn’t cause them?

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?

Reality cascaded around me
Like a waterfall before it crashes,
One you fight to break through,
Panting with anticipation for
The gold on the other side--
Except there is nothing more
Than a cave wall, dank
And dark, and full of echoes.

Ribaldric sentences,
Laughs and smiles
that we never meant.
Did either of us really want 

to chat that way?
Or was it a feigned requirement
we made up in our heads
Because we were taught,
as bumbling kids,
That something good
should always be bright,
Cheery, with no room
for the dark questions
And hard lines?

Fake it till you make it.
There was confidence
In his slate expression,
The stiffness of his walk
A methological swagger.
But his eyes of used
Charcoal and leather
Said Something different
What is it you are hiding?
What is the softness
In your heart that you
Are trying to harden?

When I was fourteen,
I stood tall in my skin,
Or at least, I thought
I did. But I was so small,
Taking up just enough
Space, thinking my name
Was not something
To be shared—
I did not know myself at all.

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

The illusion of shared smiles
And electrified nights--
Knowing someone basely

On how they were then
without exchanging names.

Even now, I look at those
Who are supposedly
Close friends, and wonder
What makes them more
than acquaintances?

That strain of connection
Appears out of reach,
Poppy seeds on the wind,
Mountains holding hands--
somewhere else entirely.

What is it those around me
Express through pointed looks
And fond gestures
That I cannot seem
to interpret?

I am an empty guitar case,
Sitting dejectedly at the feet
Of an unshaven busker,
Lid open and velvet interior
Begging for something to
Be placed inside it—except
I never wanted crumpled
Green bills or rusty coppers.
I wanted a well-loved guitar,
Filling me as if it were molded
To my shape. I wanted silent
Melodies humming under a
Closed cover—life that sings
Internally and is not meant  
For other’s entertainment.

I am made of melted steel,
Sitll holding the title
Of something malicious,
Piercing and lethal--
But in a state that is
Defenseless, harmless,
Unable to defend itself
When approached
With something other

Than words.