My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough

Can we speak wordlessly?
What is a crime? You rise on the tall
tree to see the world and fall to smell the dust.

Each word comes from euthanasia.
Who was the last vendor? You want to
purchase, tell me **** the lines.

The soul has a skin.
Keep on changing to rebuild the mind.
Are you ready for the treatment?

Clothes being blown up

from the grass by the river --


What could have happened?

the fall
     ing leaf
is all
the fall;
i call
     my grief
the fall
     ing leaf

i’m just like my father

  attraction
compels &
   rip s   me   a
  part

destroyed by
what made me
into him

you call me a
self fulfilling prophecy

i read your cards
after telling you to close
your eyes: shy divination
trembles and wrestles itself
into the dirt as
i collect each one

my intuition or
my ego    (maybe both)
rush beneath stretched skin,
an ache that unfurls into
the division between each  
of my fingers, breathing with
the tension of a starved mutt:  
                                         i whine
   at the bottom of
      your front door
                       step:

                                  i mirror you do
                                           not let me
                                         in