now it's just a tree,
then it was so much more
than just a tree.
i've been trying like hell
to get back on that street,
and in moments like these
i feel i'm getting
closer.
rain and garbage cans
full of beer cans,
fresh cut lemon
and a dog
of many homes.
a sister who said
it was always as
simple as our mother
told us;
some days I don't believe it
and live for the days
when I wholeheartedly do.
that rain on those beer cans
is the best show
i've seen
all year,
and the dog applauds
with his tail.

All of the factories
would shut down
when her eyes
took naps on mine.
Many moons later,
here I am;
Soot on the lips
She used to kiss.

Life is a perpetual act
of learning and unlearning.
I remember the wisest
I've ever been.
I didn't know it then.
Intoxicated skies
where stars would spin.
We had smoke shadows.
We would two step
on curled boards
and swim with catfish
as the river ran,
as it always did
and someday
no longer will.
We put our bones
into motion
while the rest of life
was innocently
still.

I’m on the brink
of something new,
like a child in a spring garden
full of morning
and flowers
that are inviting
the pollinators in
for a cup of sweet tea.
And between the plants,
air, and the soil of my soul
I’ve found a hope
that throws its beams
off of the moon
and into the eyes
of a better man
on his way
to better days
and dreams
beyond his sleep.

I knew a boy
who wanted the whole world.
And he almost had it.
He wrapped his arms around it all
and just as it was about to finally be his
he realized
he had no place to put it,
except for exactly where it already is.
So he let it be,
exactly where it is.
He painted it with evergreen eyes.
And as he smiled at it,
it smiled back.

There was a butterfly
With one wing
That whispered in my ear.
It said,
“Don’t make anyone
Your everything
Because if they leave you
You’ll feel as though
You only have one wing,
Just like me,
And then
you’ll have to fly
In circles
For the rest of your life.”
I replied,
“She’s prettier
Than a blood moon,
And that would be
A gorgeous kind
Of pain.
I could fly
In circles around her
All day.”

I wish that we were
bound by the pain
that we all share,
the way a drop of water
is bound to the ocean.
But we are not.
Instead, we wander
headless and heartless,
and chasing
the horizon of
our fellow human’s strife
proves futile
lest we recognize
that love is the only way
we will ever meet the sun
where it sets.

The Fernet-Branca,
sipped slowly,
seems to go well
with the pack of yellow American Spirits,
though I usually go with
the light blue pack.
Yellow does the trick tonight.

From the 14th floor
the city lights of Denver
are blurry.
So are the morning emails,
the slot for quarters
on the laundry machine,
the cars that pass on 8th
headed to wherever,
and you.

There was a poor
shepherd boy
who used to throw
stones at the castle
walls every day.
Every day
he would return
with pockets full
of stones,
and the walls
would stand there
mocking him.
But it was futile,
despite all of the
stones he'd thrown,
the walls continued
to stand
and the king
continued to oppress
his kingdom.
In throwing stones,
the boy had garnered
quite the arm.
One day
he came to the walls
with pockets
full of seeds.
He threw the seeds
over the walls,
and trees
and flowers
started to grow
on inside of the
castle walls.  
The king became
quite distraught about this
and ordered his servants
to pick every newly sprouted
plant out of the ground.
But they could not keep up.
The boy threw more and more
seeds every day,
and the plants started overtaking
the castle.
Birds, butterflies,
and other creatures
invaded the castle.
The castle became so infested
with life,
that the king could no longer
do anything about it,
and the roots of the trees
started to grow into
and fracture the castle walls.
And little by little those walls
crumbled.
And by the time they did,
the king did not care,
his castle was more
beautiful now
than it ever had been.
Once the walls fell,
the king could see
all of the people outside
of them.
The king finally understood.

I tried to trade love for freedom,
but ended up finding out
that they are one in the same.

What am I to do
With all of this love?
Should I glue it
To a kite
And let the wind take it
Out of the atmosphere
So it can look upon
This earth
As a whole?
Maybe I should
Tie it around
One of my front teeth
And show it to the world
When I smile
As the world smiles back.
Maybe I should leave
It in an empty ballroom,
let it dance its way around
And out the window
To salsa with the moon.
Or maybe I should leave it
Right where it is,
Between your lips
And what remains of me.

The universe is in motion
And it feels like love.

What no one understood about her
was that all she wanted was to feel loved,
and none of those beds made her
feel that way.
She went to the highest mountains
and to the bottom of the ocean,
only to find fleeting satisfactions
that flew by like birds
too busy to stop and sing her a song.
Her eyes didn’t stop,
but the places that she looked
had no interest in making
a home for her.
It wasn’t until she found her goddess
in the mirror
that she went back to her own bed,
drifting in and out of the dream
that she lived;
drifting in and out of love
with herself and the world around her.

When she woke up
her heart was met with the song
of a bird that finally stopped
to sing her a song,
and I think I just might
keep singing to her
as long as the sun
continues to rain
down on her
and kiss the eyes
that had finally found
what she had been looking for.

I’ve never considered
that there was ever
a moment
that music didn’t enhance.
But I’ve finally found
a peace in my life,
however fleeting,
where the green light
on Grant street
is the drop
I’ve been waiting for.

The ***** dishes sit in the sink,
piled up,
like the thoughts in our skulls
or feelings in our fingernails.
And sometimes we clean them,
but more often than not they just sit there,
in the sink, in our kitchen, in our cold
little apartment on Pennsylvania street.
And we pass each other in hallways,
saying something like "hello" or "how's it going?"
or maybe nothing at all.
The ambulances drive by
and sometimes we hear them,
but mostly we pay no mind.
The nightly news plays in the background,
but I don't know what they are saying anymore
because I can't distinguish the news anchor's
words from the ambulance siren.
And we gaze through our microscopes,
looking at the content of our lives
on a fragile glass slide
upon which squirm the infinitesimal
bacteria that we took from the sink.

I won't fight
your war anymore.

I've seen it
from the ground
and I've seen it
from the sky.
And from these
vantage points
my eyes
will always
remember
the picture
of the blood
that my heart
no longer pumps
yet will never
forget.
Your killing machines
are the brightest blue.
They used to be
as loud as
fighter jets
but now I
only hear them
in the whispers
that haunt
the rubble
of who I am.
This poem is
nothing more
than a waving
white flag
atop that rubble;
the dandelion
that grows
from the vestiges
of what remains.

I won't fight
your war anymore.

I mowed the lawn yesterday
and it felt terrible.
This complacency
has made my feet heavier,
and though the road continues
I now walk it with cinder block slippers,
unsure of how much further
I’ll actually go.
I can feel a white picket fence
in my future,
trapping me in
and my dreams out,
coddling me
with the indifference
that trickles through
the cracks of our lives.
I feel myself becoming like
everybody else,
and I’ve never been so afraid in my life.

There’s a lighthouse
On the horizon.
It is the mother
Of the child in me.
For a time
I’ve worn
This cactus sweater
And have gazed
Through the lens
Of a night sky
Without stars.
But the way
That lighthouse
Throws its beams
Keeps something
Alive inside
Of the seemingly
Abandoned shell
That I wear.

I move around
like an ant in the garden.
I see flower sky scrapers
and leaf highways.
I have no idea
how small I am,
but if I did
I’d know what things
to care about
and what to
let go of.

What an inconsistency,
that the rain or her
bioluminescent smile
can cool
this sun drenched balcony
down to a place
that makes you
the good kind of cold
in early July.
It’s too ridiculous to seem real;
no one would ever give something
as ethereal away to someone else.
Or maybe that’s not true.
Maybe that’s what keeps
the asteroids from hitting earth.

If I were a card in the deck,
I don’t know what one I’d be.
And I don’t know of those cards,
Which ones sit in my back pocket.
I’m not sure I’m any of them,
And I don’t think any of the 52
Were made for me.
A card feels like a weapon,
I can’t help but wonder
If weapons were initially made to hurt others,
Or to protect ourselves from them.
But it seems for most of us,
We play a lot of
Aces against ourselves.
And in the face of seconds,
We understand very little.
Like how many seconds it took
To make a bouquet,
A bridge,
A bomb,
A person,
A picture of people,
Of me,
Of her,
Of you.
I question how many more seconds,
This glass will have champagne in it.
Well, it’s Prosecco, actually.
The seconds don’t care if it came from
California or France,
And apparently tonight I could give a ****.
That glass is my one companion,
This cold evening on Lincoln street.
It plays no cards against me.
We decided, very mutually,
to put down our weapons for a night.
Or for at least a second.
Just so we could shuffle the deck.

I’m waiting,
And not too desperately,
Until something is enough.
I desire,
Just as the moon moves tides,
Predictably,
Always on schedule.
The glass slipper I keep in my back pocket,
Grows cold, and I wonder if a different material might fit an idea more comfortably.
To say goodbye so many times,
Does not take anything from hello.
I’ve heard the core of the earth is very hot,
And that makes the most sense to me.
Somewhere beneath it all something burns,
And I want to know what it has to say.

Now I'm just the fly
on the rim of her
chardonnay glass.
A tourist everywhere I go.
It brings me back to
that apartment in the South Bronx,
an onion disguised as an apple,
an old boy who no longer trusts
the weatherman.
I leave the lights on when I'm gone
so that coming home feels less lonely.

This whole thing
might be harder
if we were more aware.
Ignorance is my EpiPen.
Tell me stars are just fireflies
putting on a show,
all for me.
Convince me
that you are not from here,
but here alone.
Persuade me
there is an after party
where you will meet me
and we’ll take the tram
out of the skylight
and fall asleep together
in a bed of telephone wires
carrying words of honey.
Assure me that rivers
stay the same,
that days never end,
the nights don’t either,
that the world is static,
and that I’ll feel this way forever.
Lie to me if you have to,
but do it with the same
sugar cane lips
you press to my shoulder.

Light pollution
may be
a necessary evil.
But beyond that,
the only other necessary evil
I know of is love.
My heart goes far away,
when I think about her.
We are rubber bands
laid next to another
amongst many others
on the bungee rope
that ties the sun
to the earth.
This rope is strong,
but it stretches
and constricts
in a way that
brings the winter
and the summer,
the day and the night,
darkness and light;
you are the martini
of my Monday.

What if the lion was scared?
What if what goes up didn’t come down.
What if I placed a bet,
Somehow, against my garden.
What if i stopped looking,
What might I not find?
I know they didn’t build skyscrapers
To get closer to heaven.
What if the moon was no closer.
What if I could barely acknowledge,
The force it takes
For a blade of grass to grow.
And somewhere along a horizon I’ll never meet,
Lies the exploding of a star,
I named after you.

You were my cup of coffee,
burning my lips on the first
sip of your being,
making my heart beat faster.
My hands began to shake
as I got half way through you.
But I didn't drink you fast enough
and consequently you became cold.
Towards the bottom of you
I chewed on the room temperature
grinds of what gave you
flavor in the first place.
I left you this way,
with no desire
to order another one.
One of the greatest pains in life
is that no coffee stays hot forever,
at least not for me.

When she calls you
With that song
Of a thousand songs
And suns,
Don’t be afraid.
Let yourself fall in love
And hold on tight
To the madness.

It's the warmest day of the winter
here in Denver,
and I enjoy wearing a blue
short sleeved button up
with strange patterns
that I found at the thrift store
that belonged to some man
before it belonged to me.

I wonder how different we are.
I wonder how similar we are.

I wonder if he'd ever crawled
inside one of the great pyramids,
only to find a small room
that people slaved and died over,
once occupied by a king
who is no longer there
and was replaced by
cool, wet air
that smells like
some tourist
who forgot to wear
deodorant that day.

Maybe he'd have quit
smoking cigarettes by now.
Maybe he'd have never started
in the first place.

Maybe he would run out of breath
when introduced to olive eyes
complimented by olive overalls
and constellations of freckles
that spelt out the words
to the greatest poem
he'd ever read,
along with the letters
of his name.

Maybe he'd worn black jeans,
along with that same shirt,
that grilled his legs
medium rare.
Maybe they stayed rare.
Maybe they stayed moving.
Maybe they didn't.

Maybe that man
had spilt a bag of *******
on this shirt.
Maybe that's why my heart hummed
to the tune of Etta James' "at last"
the first night I wore that shirt
across the table from those
olive eyes.

Maybe that man didn't give a ****,
maybe he understood how silly
it would be
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in November.

Maybe that man was a brilliant idiot,
who really didn't give a ****,
and knew how silly it wasn't
to glue fallen leaves
back on their branches in December.

Maybe he said,
"**** the neighbors, watch me glue these leaves
only when you get tired of the news on T.V."

If you want to know what's happening to the world
don't just watch the news every night.
Watch what happens to yourself
after watching the news every night.

Maybe that man's thoughts
moved like gravel
under steel toed boots.

Maybe the moon moved that man,
the way it moves the tides to higher grounds
and brings life to those hot evaporating pools
where an octopus
contemplates leaving,
only by way of
scorching sun baked lava rock
and air that he can't breathe.

It's all for a better life,
isn't it?

Maybe that man
was a house with one small window
with a view of his well earned
green lawn
and white picket fence.

Maybe there were no windows
and he was a cactus
somewhere it rarely rained,
to his own delight and misery.

Maybe he figured out
that the only things that break our hearts
are the things we are willing
to let inside of them.

I'm eating apple pie right now,
and it's one of the few things
I have enjoyed this week.
Most people like apple pie,
including myself.
And maybe he does too.
Maybe that matters.
Most likely it doesn't.

Either way.
We've worn the same shirt
and it's a nice day out.

There are 7.6 billion people
In this world.
Behind every set of eyes
A different universe.
I’m in love with yours
But not you
Anymore.
You made mine
*****.
The strings
Of lights
On the trees
Make me sad.
We put them up
In December
And they make us feel
like basement
Temperature
Flat beer juice,
And then January comes
Like law enforcement
To the rager you held
While your parents
Were in Doore County.
And everyone leaves the party.
And we all take the lights down.
This is
1 of 7.6 billion.

She couldn't go back
to her empty apartment.
It's not that her feet
couldn't handle the
five block walk,
it's more that
Lafayette street never felt
like home.
In fact, no place has,
at least not since
there first were new
colors in the sky.
She curses the sun
but not other stars;
they had never burnt
her skin.

And somewhere
out in the cosmos
between black nothingness
and star glitter
she was hoping
to find someone,
someone she mistook
for me.

Just like the gun
and the bullet,
we were made for each other
but ended up
so **** far
apart.

I can see the whole city from up here.
There are buildings reaching for the sky,
so as to expedite the process
of getting into some heaven
that doesn't exist for most of
the people here.
The roads are woven together like a fabric
that is less like silk
and more like the towels
at any of the ****** motels lining Colfax.
The same smog that clouds my mind
lays atop this concrete like a warm blanket
that eats away at your lungs before moving
on to your soul for dessert.
I see only a few castles
yet there are kingdoms of shanties.
There are no gardens here
and the trees are fake.
If pain could manifest itself
in any physical form, it would take the shape
of this city.

And yet, I can see a shirtless old man,
singing along with the radio on his balcony
and drinking the beer I used to drink when
I was a teenager.
The sun still penetrates the smog
and presses its lips to the skin and antiquated shape
of his weathered body.

I can't pretend to know his story
or anyone's story for that matter,
but the echo
of his voice and radio
are the staunchest display
of protest I have ever seen.
In a world suffocated
by the cacophony of our
shared suffering,
his song is the anthem
for us all.

The days pass
under feet
like cracks in the sidewalk
under pressure
by the traffic jam
of cognition ants
that echos with
the engines on 8th.
They slip our minds
like hair
down the shower drain,
minuscule things that
we can lose
because they seem so
dispensable.
But the old man still sings,
the crows still fly north
toward downtown,
and far away galaxies
still waltz,
out in the cold
and empty,
before you,
now,
and long after.
It is a ****** kind
of gorgeous,
where even the eyes
of a stranger
can help us
to thaw.

I'm in between two apartments.
I'm lonely.
I was planted here
by the owner
of the apartment
on the left.
I'm the only rosebush.
I've been here
for about
ten years
and I wish
that I could
move to a spot
with a little more sunlight.

The world is burning
it lights the tip of this spliff
spiffy satisfaction is what we want
what is the market price for that?
And so tied tight and hard to get undone
are the sun and the moon,
midnight and noon,
me and you,
soon,
maybe we don't sleep tonight.

And as I lie next to her I feel as though I’m falling
From the stars down to an earth I don’t recognize
At a speed faster than terminal velocity.
I don’t know if I can’t sleep or don’t want to,
The lights of the skyscrapers ooze through
The bedroom window
And cover her anatomy
Like the dusting of the first snow
On new dahlia,
Earlier than it came last year,
Or the year before,
Or any year I can remember.
She need not dream about me,
So long as she awakens to me.
Her chest rises and falls,
My body throbs in waves of merciful tepidity
And colors drip into her dreaming mind.
I don’t feel scared.
For the first time I’d rather sit than run.
I listen to her with my eyes.
I see her in split seconds when I blink.
There are people who don’t know each other who want to go to war.
We don’t know each other, but maybe we could end one.

I won’t fight in your war,
I’m too busy fighting in my own.
You make sacrifices
That aren’t yours to make,
A heavy bill you don’t foot.  
there are white roses that have grown
In a field you turned into a battle ground,
They are red now,
Stained by blood that is not your own.
And it drips onto the grass,
Into the soil,
and from the soil,
Into me.
Into all of us.
Into you, but you don’t know that.
I’ve been growing white roses lately,
That’s my war.
And they grow towards the sky,
Despite the fact they sprout
From the rubble you’ve left behind.
And unlike you I don’t pick their petals.
Their thorns don’t scare me because
They belong to them, not me.
They don’t mean to harm you,
They are just protecting themselves from you.
Though certainly
You have been harmed by others.  
A bullet.
A bomb.
A bombardment.
A breath of fire.
A bulletin board of things
That don’t need to happen.
I come to find it’s better
not to point the finger at white roses
Or their thorns.
Or myself.
This one falls on you.
So no,
I won’t fight in your war,
I’m too busy.
I’m just way too ******* busy,
Fighting my own.