I'm not as religious
as my mom thinks I am.
She teaches other kids
about our shared faith
every Sunday, with me in tow.
It's not that I don't believe
in the gods that she does.
God is supposed to
guide you and inspire you,
and teach, protect, and love you.
So I implore you:
find God in the halls of an art gallery
or in the crashing waves at the beach.
Find God at the bottom of a bottle
or on the top of a skyscraper,
the middle of a forest,
in the words of scholars
or in the cells of life itself.
Call it what you want,
but find God
in everyone
and everything.

[doesn't every ugly thing
look good in cursive?]*

tattoo the image as a sleeve
like i'm too young to care
if you're taking care of yourself
vinylrecordshatteringvulnerableOHSO
it's not even summer yet
and i already know i ain't over a **** thing
love like your slender, lanky long body

large brown eyes and the smell of
smoke in your hair
hazel honey energy, making out on the balcony
promise land really is just a graveyard
of discarded lights like you and i
in the middle of a desert
and i can't think straight, not since your lips
first captured mine

the taste of gunpowder on his tongue as the night tangled around us like sheets: & so we hung, from the stars, as diamonds. His touch was new & like nothing i had known. (it made me feel alive again.) He is fragile flower petals, the burning soul of a constellation.

we will wait for snow, he says, & i know somewhere inside. For i remember the winter night; some three hundred days ago. i wore mittens - hand stitched blue- everyday that frozen month.
They said he wasn't there. he had gone home, 'for the holidays.' & so i left. tiny steps down the sidewalk, frosted like a brilliant glowing cake.

Alone that night i drove the long way there- that cemetery where you sleep now. (He misses you so much.) And you waited, said hello, & i wanted to cry. A blanket of snow, we talked of stories and i know. You miss him too. We were together, then. That candy cane night.

So, speak of infinite love and
roll your umber eyes. It goes so
well with the way you roll your r's,
as you teach me your Castilian
intonations. Just don't fall
in that category of immersed lost
Latin loves, of mine, sunk in
wet memory.

Ah, the murk of them, an amalgam.

Each giving to a melting ***,
and me, a liquid molten fraction
of strange tensile strength
and half gold-like luster. An alloy
of allies, do I see them as? Why,
yes, of course.

Now you come. Please stand out
from the mix. Show me your
purity.

Be solid gold.

I know you like my pronunciation.
I need to know now, yours.
Mi Amor

I.
you never saw me in winter:
shearling fur and kettlebell boots
my outer crust cracking from one step outdoors.

I wear socks to bed
and smoke Belmonts to cover
my breath with toxins
instead of you.

II.
I never wear pants when I’m with you
mostly because I’m hoping to re-enact me walking
over the Millennium Bridge
in May.

if the wind pushed any further
up my skirts, it would force my lungs right out my throat.

my hotel room called for us
but you were on a plane to Norway
and I was in my head.

III.
the last time we had ***
you told me you’d finish me off first next time
but I’m always like your backup song for karaoke,
in case someone takes your first choice.

you never:

acknowledged that my rice was shaped like a heart
and yours like a star at dinner,

ask me what my tattoos mean,

but always ask me if I’m pregnant.

you’re a roll of film that needs be developed but
I keep smearing the edges with my fingers
and scanning the red light over myself.

If you've ever stayed up until 4 am,
you're either lonely or in love.
And I don't know which one is worse anymore.

Mr. Nobody--
A wrangly thing
some could call him a snob
or a high chinned minister
who was ordained
with a polished Apple-Phone
and his signature
swirlesque embroidered
wrist cuffs and tie clip.

He is the founder
to any computer based company
that processes tiny micro-chips at a price of
99 cents, and charging 100 dollars
for each "upgrade".

In his spare time
he's sponges around
lofty paintings,
filtering through new and old antiques,
but always coming back
to lackadaisly lounge
around his things.

Where a house is
up-kept by maids,
and in his closet
hangs the silhouettes
of personalities,
that he likes to try
around his family.

This is what I imagine
of Francisco, the boy buying coffee
at this Local Caffè
and as he leaves
that Apple-Watch lights up
reminding
about a job interview today.