You are the reason why I
wake up every morning

                and do you know why?

         because I believe you can do anything
    and I want to
                              extend that anything
                   to the moon and back

the bitter cold grates against my nerves
a pleasant sound, not unlike
that of a violin

I went hunting with my dad once
Around August or September
I was younger but old enough to remember

Windhowls of the deep forests
Sounded like owls everywhere
Straying from our camper - I didn't dare

It didn't take long
   It was almost too soon
Anticlimactic & too simple to be true

Just planted ontop of the weeds
Just a few feet into the brush
Lay a pile of stuff

Disshevled and unkempt
Motionless and covered in burrs
Save for the sleight of a gust to weave thru its fur

The bones weren't white or polished
The cartoons had misled
It sat there in pieces & browning, instead

Skeletal, like random things tossed together
A velcro roadkill tumbleweed
Dried out and unable to bleed.

My dad told me it was a coyote
   I thought,
There's no way that was a coyote - a coyote?

It's just a pile of stuff

Driving East
Sun setting at my back
Lyrics pushing at my ears
with a chill in the air
I think of home.
Sometimes I feel lost, but I know
exactly where I am
It always feels wrong when
the sun sets to my back
And I'm going the other way.

"One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way."
-Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his younger brother Theo van Gogh in July of 1880"

I've taken the straight razor
to my ear like a third-rate
van Gogh.

Impressionism bleeding
into Expressionism.

Mania trickling into
an unmitigated need
to find the beauty
and grace he only
found with a paintbrush.

Blood clinging to the
horse hair bristles
like the blood splattered
in the margins of every
page I've ever filled.
Each line and brush
stroke choking out
a futile cry for help
as the wheat fields burn
and the sunflowers wither.

Have I become her?
that untouchable sultry lady
whose dress flows in the wind
wisps of blue that match the
color of the sun in her hair.

Flyaways are held in place
a sprayed on gentle hold,
if you stand closer maybe you'll
breathe in the scent of Dior,
or a knockoff, it's your call.
Not to mention, the taste of
ash on my lips and kiss.

But she and I, we're, oh, so different.
She is always
unsure
insecure
lost.
And I've found myself
and I'd never try to be cute
and with you.
I respect myself too much.

When was the last time we
took pictures with every
intention of holding onto them?

it might seem small in comparison to a
global movement for peace or campaign to
end world hunger, but an afternoon and a
handful of memories can go a long way

and sincerity ices the cake

I want to know if a venti
Will hold a tall can for my jog home

As I type the word “how” into my phone
Recent searches pop up
Only one starting with the word how

“How do I know if I am having a heart attack”

I skip the beer and run
Until my heart beats so much warm blood into my face
I feel the pump in my lips

If only someone had kissed me just then