i wrote you
letters last January
so many, i
had to pull the sterling rings
you gave me
from my cramping fingers
just to keep
putting bone against black
and ease you
out of me gently

*** was never as good
with the dishes done
or the laundry folded
and we never
held time
for chores
once we
were finished

long before light graced
beyond my sealed lids,
a gray lady sat sewing
squares, "for foundation."

her accent was like the
magenta strips with
which she bordered:
a boy needs foundation,
boundaries to teach him
his boundlessness, dirt
in which to sink his feet.

and unlike my foundational
quilt, linked so firmly to the earth,
she faded
first to rose, and then
to silver pink before
                                   dissipating
into dusted petal wither.

i'll meet her on the next go around.

my sixteenth was bitter-themed
and my parents gave me
a mexican blanket,
colored like mother,
aqueous aquamarine
and patterned like father,
those angular and triangular
movements;
woven just like theirs,
to give me rest and
haven on the roads
of my inevitable adventures.

and when i am eighteen
the women of my family
will meet with needles
and spools, and wool
to click-clack and chit-chat
over my adulthood -

and when it is done,
i will behold azure
like the heavens
entangled with warm tones
and spun prayers
to cocoon
in the chill of
carolina's coast

The universe provides

                opportunities

Like streets for the taking

alleyways to satiate the curiosity of

        what could be

Giving a ride to the stranger

to be told         Put in on black

with fifty dollars in your hand

Seeing The Best of people at 5 a.m.

(in those moments between time where those few wake)

Early or late

Love is the currency

Take a chance on the people

Hey Brother, can I get a ride?

    Where you going?

Asthma, you take my breath away quite literally I'm breathless

i'm sure you've
already noticed
the lonely little
mole right above
your lip on the
left, or right
for you, i guess;
i just wanted to say
that i like it.

of all the people
in all the towns,
in all the countries
in the world, and
you are the one
to steal away
my focus --
this time i wish
sam wouldn't
play the ****
song.

another olive-skinned,
i should have known --
they always inspire
me to paint myself,
cover the pale canvas
of identity with colors
of character and depth;
but always someone
else's character, or
depth.

we danced
before, but stopped
when ridiculed and
classically reprimanded
by an old drunk --
(we used to forget
at his house, now
all i can do is reflect)

smoke signals
aren't your
strength,
regardless
of (or not)
how many
death sticks
and musky,
evanescent
incense scents
you insist on
letting burn.

we kissed before,
more for silly displays
or efficiency than
anything else; but
why am i so ******,
or toasted, or fried,
to think that maybe
it would happen a
second time?

A battered photograph
cannot fully capture
the mossy green of your eyes.
Camouflage is your color,
my dear.