Our failed attempt at change,
Re-elected in a last ditch
Show of democracy,
Sits in his oval office
Looking at the ice left
At the bottom of his drink,
Wondering what he should do

Surprised that his half-assed attempts
At diplomacy are poised to fail,
He's already shown America
Where we really stand
Which is just about nowhere

We don't want vengeance
And we don't want death
We just want a voice
And what that voice would say,
If he cared to open those office doors is
'Wait; not yet.'

Because we understand the pressures
We understand what happened
Ninety-nine years ago
On a rainy day in July
And we want the skies to stay clear
For even just a little bit longer this time

If he even so much as looked
Outside his window
He would see the picket signs
Of the storm set to brew
Upon his push
Of a button.

As your hands became my hands
and your breath my breath--
as sweat poured down my forehead in a profoundly
passionate yet hauntingly animalistic way,
I had a memory of three years from now:
our dehydrated and smiling lips kiss again
in front of the bar where we just got tipsy,
creating our own cacophony of laughter.
Whispering goodbye even as our fingertips
(which are still the same fingertips) whisper hello,
I look towards Athens and you
towards whatever life you're leading. "Sorry" I say,
and you: "It's fine." And it is.

"We cannot step backwards," I said boldly,
venturing back.
My body mirrored yours, two inches away,
both of us with out legs bent just like that
facing the windows, which passed rather plainly
from darkness to daylight.
Your alarm was set for ten-o-clock,
and when it went off, pulling us both into on
I didn't know how to make it quiet,
and so waited for your body to rise,
the obnoxious mechanical chirping
echoing throughout your tiny dorm-room which smelled
sort of like Indian food.
My calves were sweaty
just like my lower-back, and I
worried that the smelly salt water
would soak into your sheets.
When your head hit the pillow again, in that 10:02 light,
you fell almost immediately back to sleep.
Checking my phone for new messages,
I noted the time at 9:02.
Thoughts of subjectivity and farcical transport through time, through
daylight savings time
danced through my head as I waited
through that ethereal hour
until you finally sat up again
at 10:02.

A couple days ago
I bought twelve cartridges of ink
For my fountain pen

"Guys," I said
A couple weeks ago,
"I'm a writer"
And you all nodded so
"No you don't get it
I don't just write things
I'm a writer"
And you all nodded so

I bought twelve cartridges of ink
For my fountain pen

Within
The moon hits the tree
in such a way
that it's easy to forget
the height;
the ultimate suspension:
eighty feet up
in a harmonic slumber
resting only
on the closest thing
I've found to God:
a single organism
on which two
(or maybe three
now?)
men can rest
and gaze upwards
at the shockingly
finite dance
of the leaves
and the stars--
all the while,
listening to the chorus
of the frogs, owls, coyotes
of the woods around

Without**
After spending a night
without the comforts
of modern man,
in a little green dot
on man's map,
boxed in on all sides,
I emerged
from the forest
to find a man
in a forklift
with a saw--
and at first it seemed
as if he might just
be trimming the branches
but then
the tree fell,
and like man
and his little green boxes,
product of a continually
diminishing temper,
a yard
(or perhaps
a map?)
was left barren

the rows of roads and skyscrapers are rolling like
breakable hills above us
and under us
the waves are crashing
into
silicon valleys
made of thick
rubber
which carries no charge. but

here we are in the middle.

y’all make me feel outside of it and
inside of myself, cuz i am not
thick rubber and i am not
a breakable hill.

i am a body
sitting in the front seat
of my car,
driving down the highway,
and singing
at the top of my lungs
to nothing in particular.

the mid-day sky paints the undersides
of my closed eyelids blue as I try furiously
to wet my chapped lips and peel away that dead skin
to forget the memory of yours, so dry on my index finger
by the time 3 a.m. rolled around
and I finally got to the sink in my bathroom.
both the soap foaming on my fingers
and my clean-faced reflection in the mirror
were like I was, sunbathing
under clouds, but then

a year went by and carried us full circle.
the wind of that hurricane still rustling our still-
growing hair, I came to wonder whether that long journey
back to the white-washed night-time kitchen in my mom’s
otherwise empty house
was worth it—all the hesitancy and then
all the alarming and ultimate lack thereof. If only because of
those lanterns we sent
up into the atmosphere and
across the already countless pages of the journal you made for me,
I’m inclined to say (hesitantly, it seems, but
ultimately not so hesitantly at all) that
yes, it was.
all of it was worth it.
so now I’m left

with that blue,
that starling, stunning, shocking,
vivid blue, so deep
that even when I close my eyes and try
to blind myself from it, it sits there anyway
on the undersides of my closed eyelids
like a dream or a drugged vision, but more profound
because I know
that when I go to bed tonight, it won’t have faded in
some form of perturbed sobriety. it will still be there,
just as startling, real, and vivid
slinking surreptitiously through every moment then
on.

Sad Winter music plays
In the background of my life
As I sit in an empty doorway
Writing empty love poems
All across my skin
And I think about the potential
Tattoos I could put there
To one day look at
And see nothing

This weather
Of things slow to end
And things slow to begin
Makes me think that maybe
One day soon
These empty poems
Could have meaning again

I wonder whether you'd be falling for me if you knew
how crumpled my body is
from taking that plunge.

I had my arm in a cast once, and
when it was removed the skin there was dry
and pale, and there were these
discolored dead patches of skin that
incessantly refused to wash off in the shower that night.
It took me over a week
to regain my full range of motion.

Now, I think this cast has been removed. And
I swear to you, I'm trying. Keep falling.
I will do my best to catch you, I just hope I
have my full range of motion back
by the time you reach me.

I pinned those wilting flowers to the wall
And a month later
I still smile when I see them

We'll see what December brings

From a needle,
As from a fountain pen,
Pours ink
Into my skin

A promise of
Eternity sealed
And very few
Will ever know

(I wonder why
Those I love
Are those to whom
I only lie)

I'm not sure
Whether to fill this first page
With visions of you.
Because even as
Your heartbeats resonate
Within each stroke of my pen,
To love you any longer
Would be like sitting here
Sunbathing under clouds,
Denying myself
The human necessity
Of truth

“You've been awfully quiet today”
My father said
“I just have a lot to do”
I replied
“You can go home”
He told me
And I
Almost broke down
In that moment
As I had already done
And as I knew you were doing
Elsewhere
But I simply said
“Okay”
Too afraid to tell him;
Too much
Still looking forward
To a lake side in September-
Or maybe not yet
Understanding
What I had done-
But regardless
Too... something
To tell him
Who might not be coming
To that lake side
In September
Anymore

(“See you Monday”
“See you Monday”
I wish I could still
Say things
Like
"See you Monday")

I would like things to be not as they can be
But as they were.
Today I'm climbing a tree in another act
Of pure potentiality, but the dialectically
Bright shadow that hangs,
Even at eighty-five feet, is still yours.

It's cold, and my fingers grow numb.
As I speak, voice echoing across and through
The branches, the ice melts
Where my rope rubs,
Bringing the friction I need to forget.
I fear what was just as warm.

I would like to climb forever but
I can't die up here.
It would be far too fulfilling so
I'll just come down.
Give me a minute, please.

We threw stones at an ancient cliff-face
hoping that the whole thing might crumble.
Thousands of years undone by us
because then we are a part of this.
Then we aren’t insignificant.

We threw stones at a wall of stones,
and we were at if for hours
searching for the perfect projectiles—
bricks when we could find them.
It was cathartic and exhausting and good.

We threw stones,
and when we were done, covered in mud,
we all went to our separate houses to shower
and put on new pants to get ready for
our dates that night. We threw stones
at nothing really.

We were just throwing stones.

I wonder if it's
Self centered
To say that
One of my favorite
Things about you
Is that you like me
Genuinely
For who I am
But you smiled
When I told you
So maybe you need
No explanation
To understand
Exactly
What I mean

A wisp of floating smoke
Is carried blindly into my lungs
And embraced warmly
By the clammy bruised hands
Of a girl I no longer really know;
A girl whose chapped lips reek
Of two-year-old chap stick
And the ephemerally tattooed
Moments of mine

But then I exhale
And the smoke dances up to light
From the almost new moon

Autumn rushes from the vortex
Where a bottle-cap used to be
And as last drops run down dry throats,
Glasses now empty like the people who are,
Winter pours from the spring
That a pen-cap once clogged
And I sit in the bathroom wishing
A single variation of summer pleas
Would keep the modern world's fallen leaves
From manifesting themselves on wrists and thighs
But a collection of words can never be more
Than all the tattoos that are all just scars
Like the people who are-
And when the hell
Did the leaves turn orange?

Even after I make choice,
After I put a decision
Into action
I'm still undecided

It could just be
That the grass is
Always greener-
Or the rain
Always lighter-

But maybe it's
Because
I genuinely made
The wrong choice.

Or maybe not.
Maybe
I should just
Go to bed.

I didn't even think about it.

My metaphorical
All-encompassing
Grey mist of time
And uncertainty
Was literally there tonight
Clouding the moon
And the hills
And the present

But I didn't even think about it
Beyond appreciating its beauty
I didn't notice
That my favorite metaphor
Had shown itself to me

Perhaps I've become less scared
Of all the meaning
In that grey mist

Or perhaps
I simply still struggle
To find the truth
In all my fiction.

Sitting on that
****** excuse for a bed
I dreamt of a world
In four dimensions.

A world in which
Every version of ourselves
That had ever sat
And would ever sit
On that bed
Were there with us then.

And I heard and felt your
Hundred different
Heart beats
From those hundred
Different moments

I felt all of your life
And pure energy
Pulsing into the hundred
Different versions of myself
And suddenly
I understood
Why the heart
Is such a powerful metaphor
For love

Of course there were
Two hundred different laughs too-
Four hundred kissing lips,
A thousand
Whispered secrets.

But then slowly
All those different versions
Of ourselves
That had ever sat
And would ever sit
On that bed
Filtered out
In the order
In which they came in
Until eventually
Just the two of us
Were left

I was unsurprised
By the lack
Of future selves
But that didn't mean
The fact didn't dig into my skin
And make my heart beat
A little quicker;
A littler more urgent.

I like reading old poems
And thinking
About how I'm different
Even though I'm still the same:
Just a four-year-old
Trapped in the body
Of someone who now has to try
To act like an adult
And sometimes
Messes up the charade

I love you
Especially when I
Drink.
If you feel-
The same way-
Maybe shots should be
Called: good

And if you
(Love me)
Maybe we should
Kiss.

More often.

In the warmth of your basement
We sat under sweaters and blankets
Kissing when we hit writer's block
And eventually
Writing over one another
In a startlingly permanent way

For the rest of the evening
We didn't say very much at all;
We just let the moment sink in
Under our skins
Manifesting itself
In the shivery feeling you get
When a hand
Almost touches yours

That night
In the middle of the road
You held my hand
And pulled me close

Talking conspiracy theories
And laying
Side by side
Everything was almost
But just not quite

Part of me wishes
We'd never moved off
To one side
Or the other

I would have loved
To stay there
And hold your hand
In the middle of the road
Forever

Everything that in the day
Seemed like a leaf
Was now nothing
But blackness
Showing only
Where light
Could not penetrate;
Black lines dotted
Against the near-black sky

(You try to read
My poems
As messages to you
But every conversation
Is made of shadows
And I'm sorry
But these poems
Are about me)

It's that electric hum
In an almost consistent rhythm
Buzzing through the speakers
Of smart phones
And souls
That makes people **** themselves

Because you want so badly
Just to talk
But then comes
That moment
When you realize
The other line
Isn't going to pick up

So you keep waiting there
Listening
To that electric hum
Still begging for an answer

And then maybe
You leave a voice mail
Knowing full well
Nobody will ever
Listen

And then maybe
You call the next week
Or the next day, even
Occasionally convincing yourself
Someone has picked up
Only to be crushed
By the next
Blaring
Ring

Suits walk
Over human skins
Indifferent to
The shifting winds

I think I've almost written you
One hundred love poems...

And on this bitter and cold
Night in July
I want to tell you a million things
None of which would be fair to say

I want to say I love you
I want to say I want to hold you forever
I want to say you're the light in my life
But I can't

And I can't ever stop
Writing you love poems
Where I say all the things
That I know I shouldn't say
Because no matter what happens
I can't ever stop loving you

And that's the worst part.
That's the worst part
Because I know-
Even as I'm sitting here
Saying and not feeling
That a relationship is no longer
Best for us
I know-
That I'm going to write you
A hundred more
Love poems

the last time my mom
didn't see me
on my birthday
was years ago
and i cried
because she couldn't
put up with my dad
for even one day;
not even for a day
that wasn't about them
at all
not even for a day
that was about me

and my mom felt so bad
because she knew i had cried
so she saw me the next year
and the next year
and the next year

but this year
this august first
i encouraged my mom
not to come
because i can't put up
with her and my dad
for even one day;
for even one day
that's not about them at all
not even for one day
that's just about me

I don't want
To break anyone's heart.
And I am
By consequence
Incapable
Of mending my own.

We once spoke,
A long time ago,
In wordless poetry;
Every glance
A stanza
And every movement
A line.

You'd trace
Three freckles
On my neck
Making a constellation
As from your mouth
Came whispered visions
Of forever.

You asked me today
In a poem of words
If I'm happy now

I've been writing poems
In my mind
All day long-
But like the little
Islands of dreams
Lost within the seas
Of my subconscious,
I simply couldn't
Put pen to paper
Before my little life boat,
Carried by the current
Of reality,
Drifted away
From my islands
Of metaphor

Sometimes
I write poems
Instead of learning
Because learning
Too often
Means too much
Of nothing
To me

I saw your brother today,
And your mother too-
Your brother waved
And your mother
Pretended she didn't see

I wanted
To get out of my car
And hug them both

But after a little wave
Of my own,
Followed by a sad smile,
I drove away,
I turned up the volume,
And drowned my thoughts
With the kind of music
You would call
White noise

Every cigarette,
Every addictive inhale
Of warmth
And nicotine,
Keeps me farther
Away from you
And father
Away from myself
So-
“Can I have another cigarette?”-
And my friends laugh at me
Knowing that
I notoriously
Don't smoke
But I'm handed one
Anyway

Coming home
I was met
With a slightly different
Reality than the one
I left

Maybe it's because
You can't fix someone
Bent on breaking themselves

Or maybe it's simply
Because I need to
Let the past
Pass

But I just can't spend
Any more time
Avoiding the future

It feels almost
Like nothing happened-
But maybe something did
And maybe
Instead of popping
We're still just exhaling
And that bubble
Is still getting bigger

I almost kissed you
When I saw you
Yesterday
But then my left-over high
Left me
And I remembered
What I most feared-
So I pulled my chapped lips
Away from yours
And rolled over
In the bed of my mind,
Terrified
That I might one day
Unlearn
All the songs
I'd come to know
By heart

These people seem
Like a vision of a past
That has yet to
Have elapsed.

All these awful singers
With their songs-
A sick attempt
At righting their wrongs:

They pray to a god
That's so far above
And not to the lake
For it's unworthy of

Prayer
Has guided them so far away
From all of this God
That's truly here to stay

Unless we destroy it
In a war.
Ask your God-
What that would be for.

He won't have an answer.
Because unlike this lake

He dies with you.

The lights are off,
The fans aren't spinning
And even when the sun
Is shining through the windows
I still look at the digital clock
To check the time

I pulled open
The balcony door
To find that a spider
Had built its web
In the frame

I knew
That if I didn't
Destroy the web
Someone else would
And very soon

But I left it alone
And I turned around
And walked back
To my bed-
Far too ashamed
Of my species
To do anything
But sleep

(Though I was
Far too many cups
Of coffee
Into the morning
To even close my eyes)

Sitting at the edge
Of the dock
And looking at
The water below,
A little bit of nausia
Creeping up my throat,
I wonder how you feel
About all the lies you told
Before remembering
That it doesn't even
Really matter

(I also wonder sometimes
If you know
How many spiteful poems
I write about you
While you're laughing with me
From the next room)

We usually
Make tea together
In the mornings
And I just wish
We could still
Find the time
To hold hands
And slowly drink it
Together

the word home
as defined
by a magic eight ball:

try again later

I could've gone to bed
Two hours ago
But there have been
So many better
Things to do
Like mostly
Talking to you

Her:
“I wrote him a letter
That he never got to read”

Me:
“Well maybe
That's a conversation
You now need to have
With yourself”

To move on
Maybe all
We have to do
Is move
Ourselves

I look across the table
And my eyes catch yours
And I wonder briefly,
If without the pressures,
We could be happy
As two parts of a whole

But then I look away
From your eyes and I
Gaze outside instead
Thinking that maybe
I'd be happier out there