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JT Oct 2022
i've loved you far too long
for all of that.

it would be like coming home
after a long day and knocking
the snow off my boots
to find a fire already roaring in the hearth.
it would be breaking my fast,
the first warm bite
of something homemade
on that cold winter night,
my hands shaking around the spoon,
my tongue quivering.
it would be a warmth down
to my very core, so euphoric
that i'm not hungry anymore,
and i'll never have to be hungry again.
you know what they say about the way to a man's heart. i'm not a man but the point still stands.
JT Feb 2021
When I was young
I went treasure hunting
in trail mix.

I searched for
candy gems and
peanutbutter chips
buried in the peanuts.
I ate brownies without
walnuts, drank fruit juice,
breathed honey, dreamed
cinnamon-sugar dreams
on my toast each morning
and ate frosting from the jar
when I couldn't find a cake.

It's true, you never truly loose
that baby sweet tooth,
that young euphoria
of one exquisite thing
melting on your tongue.

But I've acquired a taste
for balance, now; a craving
for salt, fat, acid, heat,
the taste of buttery highs
and bitter lows,
the salt of love
and jelly of sorrow
and the richness of
living—just plain,
delicious living.
I was eating some trail mix earlier and actually thought it had TOO MANY m&m's and chocolate chips. Younger me would have been horrified, but I have better taste than her.
JT Jun 2020
We like chopping our love into pieces.
We like labeled jars, tiny portions;
we ration bits to our mothers, our friends,
our courtly lovers, clinging and clutching,
no crumbs for the people we don't know.
The truth is, there is one, enormous love.
One fire in the hearth, one warmth,
one cornucopia resplendent on the table.
There is one home in your heart
for all of it.
An entry for a shortform poetry contest.
JT May 2020
Detective in the parlor room
asks who killed mr. body?
Corpse cools,
questions asked,
tense stares,
fingers pointed,
clues counted,
truth found,
justice served,
just kidding.

It was the detective,
in the open,
with his bare hands,

and everybody saw him do it.
JT May 2020
Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
lightning on
your driest trees
or once-loved campsites
left neglected, or kindling
that you'll never see--
it all burns just the same.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
flames beget
a blood orange sky
and magma pits
beside black trees,
and all your kindest woodland creatures
hurt and hide and crawl away--
but they burn all the same.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
see your landscape
on the hill, sickly scorched
with trees rail thin,
stark beside lush greenery,
almost lovely in how clear
the story of the suffering feels,
and burning's just the same.

So what if it starts
with wildfire?
There's no need
for water, seeds,
when warmth still crackles
in the wood and
you have pain and gasoline;
light the match and you will see--
it still burns just the same.
JT Dec 2017
I am in love with Nobody
And Nobody loves me,
When I roll over in my bed
It’s Nobody I see;
Nobody cares enough to stay
And hold me when I weep,
And Nobody will dry my tears
To soothe me back to sleep;
Nobody is a friend to me
When I am feeling down,
And Nobody knows what to do
To get rid of my frown.

As I go through my average day
Nobody’s by my side,
Offering his company or
proffering his guide.
Nobody is my only friend
Sent from the gods above,
But now it seems that fate has tried
To meddle with our love.
Tomorrow night, my Nobody
Heads back to his old home;
He has a wife and child, he says,
Who know not where he roams;

Nobody has been travelling
For years from shore to shore,
Traversing through Ionia
After the Trojan War.
Oh, I will miss my Nobody
With all my giant heart,
I cannot bear to dwell on thoughts
Of us being apart.
Nobody holds my hand and says,
“Polyphemus, don’t cry,”
But I can’t stop the massive tears
From welling in my eye.
I was going through some notebooks from high school and found this gem. Guess what we were reading in English class?
JT Sep 2016
I don't know what he was to others—
   fireworks, lemonade, ants crawling on a picnic blanket—
   but I always knew him at his worst.
He was sleep cycles shaped like carnival pretzels,
   days that bled together,
weeks that clumped like a rat king
   under floorboards in the beach house.
He spoke in clouds
   swollen with diluvian rain,
daggers of lightning
   cracking the river in half,
the language of a muggy body in sticky room
   staring out a window
at absolutely nothing.
   The sort of stuff that makes me think
he didn't know his own strength,
   most of the time.

As always, when he died this year
   he died by degrees,
bedridden in the hospice of September.
   I listened to his death rattle
 of rustling yellow leaves
   and watched the last of the fireflies
crawl from between his parted lips.
   When he went cold for good
I built a pyre out of his firewood bones.
   The ashes fell into the soil
like seeds in waiting, and I watched
   the moon grow so large that it stretched
the nighttime like candy licorice
   and made it longer than before.
My duty done, I turned to go.
   The smoke rose up to embrace the sky,
and at the time, I could have sworn
  that from the corner of my eye
I saw it curl around
   and wave at me.
version four point something.
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