Too ****** up to ever get ****** up.

Even the sun will die, my dear.
Burning as it’s ending,
ending as it’s giving,
giving as it’s shining,
shining as it's burning,
and burning as it’s ending.

Before the world goes black,
I want you to die like the sun.
Be beautiful and broken and bright.
All to suspend the darkness,
even just for a moment longer.

Darling, I want you to die like the sun.

She is a sunflower -
a fully alive homeland.
Grown to bloom into the dust,
she follows the sun.
Each stroke reminding me how it feels to be alive.
And that is hard to find.

Tick
Can you hear the time?
                                                As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
                                                history drones on in the background. She
                                                wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
                                                eyes chase the clock around the bend.
Tock
It passes by.
                                               The clacking and clambering of high heels
                                                on pavement announce the haste in her
                                                heart. Five more minutes – just five more
                                               minutes – until her life tumbles before it
                                               begins. Time drips down her spine; it sends
                                               a shiver back up it. Coffee drips down her
                                               arm.
Tick
It never stops.
                                               His time is measured in meters and dashes.
                                               He runs circles to get to the end. While he
                                               races the runners, he races the time, trying
                                               to beat counting at its own game.
Tock
Why won’t it stop?
                                              A mother jolts awake to the sound of wails.
                                              “2:38am.” Dragging her body out of a
                                              cloud, she wishes for time to sleep through
                                              the night. She wishes for time long gone.
Tick
What if it stops?
                                              The power goes out in a storm overnight,
                                              and the clocks begin to flash. A father
                                              meanders through the house that night to
                                              mend each blinking beacon before his kids
                                              awaken, suspended in time.
Tock
Please don’t stop.
                                             With these people concerned about time,
                                             you probably glanced down at your watch.
                                             Do you have enough time to make it to the
                                             next meaningless task?
Tick
How much is left?
                                             How do you feel about killing time? We’re
                                             going to die, and we’re running out of time.
                                             Yet, as time murders you, you ****** time.
Tock
What time is it?
                                            The world goes on, and it will happen again.
Tick
Once at the beginning.
                                             As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
                                              history drones on in the background. She
                                              wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
                                              eyes race the clock around the bend.
Tock
Can you hear the end?

When the sirens come on,
don’t remain above ground.

Your dad will probably stay and watch. He
keeps the front door wide open. He invites
those gathering winds for a nightcap.

You must
befriend the lonely
creaks as you descend.

(If you don’t have a basement,
just get as low as you can.
Lie down in a ditch.
Crawl into something concrete.
Hit rock bottom.
Drop to the floor. Anything
is better than a grave.)

You’ll want to turn on the TV,
or a radio,
or your intuition.

If it gets too bad,
or if dad never comes down,
or if the wind decides to stay for dessert,
curl up just as you did
when you wandered into this world
on your hands and knees, with the back
of your heels on your ****, forehead
to the ground, and cover your head
with your hands. Almost
like you’re praying.

Under its frigid, dusty surface,
Mars is humming.
Alien music.
The Martian song that never ends.

The first few months of listening
were worryingly quiet.
A harrowing descent
to a flat, featureless expanse.

It’s a waiting game,
a slow march.

Streams of charged particles,
turbulence in solar winds,
a sudden release,
and the marsquakes roll in.

A series of deep slashes,
pockets of magma,
the movement of molten rock,
a seismic signal,
the mysterious pulse,
the quiet, constant drone,
the source remains unknown.

The invisible conductor
of this magnetic orchestra
is likely high above
those Martian rumbles.

Your voice is a mix of frequencies,
and if one matches the resonance of a bell,
your shouts can set it ringing.

Novel coronavirus.
Travelers in motion.
Spewing the virus.

One fervent hope
in danger of being dashed.
Undocumented carriers.
86% of all infections.
These people are the major drivers.
The ones who facilitated the spread.

Unseen transmission.
Unseen spread.
Much harder to stomp.

The longer the period of silent viral shedding,
the more difficult it is to control the outbreak.

Containment is nearly not possible.

The crusts of wheat bread
will turn my hair curly.
I believe this
because of Papa Don.
It’s because of him that I believe
in the power of Tex-Mex and the magic
of the Texas Rangers. He loved
both the same, and all nine children
even more. He never forgot the name –
or the First Communion –
of every one of his twenty-three
grandchildren. He loved me from afar,
but every reunion made me feel his love
like it was always up close.

He won’t be at my graduation.

Degenerative heart failure
stole his life before all the Diet Cokes could.
His heart, his heroic heart.

This past Christmas, he fell dreamlessly onto the floor.

Ducks have secret blue feathers
beneath their wings. They’re
called speculum feathers.

I like to call them mirror
wings or looking feathers.
Birds use them to find

their flock. To find other birds
like them. To fall in love. This
morning, I sat alone on a dock, and

I watched two swimming ducks who were
showing their speculum feathers. Were they lost?
Were they making love? Maybe the answer is

both. Or neither. They ruffled their wings
in unison, and they circled the pond like
they were dancing. Their light bounced

and reflected onto my shadow. I tried to
feed them half-grapes, but they were
too happy to let me be happy with them

Okoboji’s wave-crashing lullaby
baptized me whole.

Her voice sounds just like
my grandmother’s missing
morning-hum.

It echoes like a ripple,
and it rings in far-off frequencies.

I run off the dock –
one hundred and thirty-six feet deep.
She will catch me.

She has let me fall.

Born from a blue-water lake,
I collected Her drops in my eyes.

She wanted me to be my own reservoir.

That poor little painter fellow
was a strange man.

Vincent was his name.

He never asked for mine.
He called me darling.
He called all the nurses darling.
He called the walls darling, too.

He came to us in the springtime.
He didn’t talk much,
but his paintings were quite odd.
They swirled like the world
on three glasses of wine.
They made me reach for my glasses,
search for a chair, and chug a cup of coffee.
When I looked at his work, I felt
too much like I used to feel with Charles.
When I had one too many,
and he walked me home.
We walked for three miles. I was
happy, but he left.

On Vincent’s last night, he sat
at the barred window in his room.
I came up to him, smiled, and said,
"Wow, what a starry night,"
and he just stared.

I don’t know if he was looking
at the light in the stars
or the black in the sky.

Never owned gold.
But this morning, in my room,
tasting the coffee,
and frantically typing,
I took the hard metal of the word,
and turned it into a marigold seed,
sprouting.

You are round, white,
and easy to break –
just like me.

Over-the-counter candy to cure
my sour serotonin syndrome.
You help my body become
a sweet, symmetrical poem.

You spell the words
Medication Management,
Adjustment,
and Patience
on the tip of every
neurotransmitter I own.

Oh Lexapro,
sweet placebo,
thank you for making me
dizzy with dopamine.
Thank you for changing my clock.
Now, I’m geared toward making it

To my next pill,
to my next refill,
to my next daffodil,
and my next windmill.

You are my daylight,
my daylight saving time.

At a quarter past nine, the sheets unfurl themselves.
I curl to the warm body next to mine.
Just long enough to know she’s not waking up,
She evaporates as I reach for her hand.

I curl to any warm body next to mine –
Only a draft and the disease.
She evaporates as I reach for her hand.
Burnt coffee boils reflections of her.

Only a draft and the disease.
My head hangs heavy on a leash.
Burnt coffee boils reflections of her,
And 3am feels like drywall.

My head hangs heavy on a leash.
I talk to my therapist through a screen.
3am feels like drywall,
and it smells like stale bread at lunchtime.

I talk to my therapist through a screen.
I am sick in a different way.
It smells like stale bread at lunchtime.
There is no cure —just containment.

I am sick in a different way.
Beers in the fridge if I want them.
There is no cure – just containment.
**** in my top drawer if I’m bored.

Beers in the fridge if I want them.
I would be drinking alone.
**** in my top drawer if I’m bored.
I would be smoking alone.

I am drunk and alone.
At a quarter past nine, the sheets curl around me.
I am high and alone.
Just long enough to know she’s not waking up.

How do I make the most of words and lines?
That is the question I must ask of you.
Please help me with this noble quest of mine.
With all these words, I don’t know what to do.

A rhyme flies by and slips right through my tongue.
A metaphor takes form then disappears.
My mind can’t turn these words into a poem.
These rules, this craft is nothing but unclear.

Shakespeare and all his friends are mocking me.
They see the suffering through this terrible fate.
To mold just fourteen lines in quatrain three,
And little couplet—yeah, it’s you I hate.

Okay, I quit. It simply won’t all fit.
Oh, why can’t I just write a **** sonnet?

Every day, I inch
Out

to every character
in my life:

Mom and Dad. On the
patio of the white house that almost always
looked
like a home.

Friends. Told quick, before I had
time
to take back my
breath.

Four siblings. Who made
fun of me like
normal to make me feel
just a little
lighter inside.

Every person I will meet in the future-
Employers,
Clients,
Extended family
God (?)

Coming out is like a caterpillar,
Inching toward something --
inching toward flying
inching
              and inching
                                    and inching
Out.

Oh caterpillar,
hesitant little caterpillar,
climbing
up the tree,
cocooning various parts
of yourself
as you inch toward who you’ll be.

The moon knows how to be lonely at night
It struggles through darkness and still stays alight
I think there are lessons the moon could teach me
About midnight and starlight and consistency
The world makes most sense when its black and white

There’s wisdom tucked in the constellations alright
It’s just about trying and trusting your sight
Because the sky will light up like a Christmas tree
And the moon knows how to be lonely

So take down your notes, take in all the light
Notice the shine that remains through the night
In your own darkness, I hope you can see
Your light like the moon you always wanted to be
The stars can teach you how to shine bright
And the moon knows how to be lonely

Tick
Can you hear the time?
Tock
It passes by.
Tick
It never stops.
Tock
Why won’t it stop?
Tick
What if it stops?
Tock
Please don’t stop.
Tick
What time is it?
Tock
How much is left?
Tick
Once at the beginning.
Tock
Can you hear the end?

TickTockTickTockTickTock...

There is a compass in my heart, and you are my due north. You magnetize me with your smile, and you show me my way home.

I want to write you a million love poems so I never forget the smile on your face when I read you the first one.

The world turns monochrome as it masquerades in the night.
As twilight tip-toes on the towers through town, the daylight morphs into moonlight.
Colors blend and dissipate in the sky, creating a canvas of a lingering sun.
This world looks so beautiful before it sets, like paint on a palette, smudged, but not yet destroyed.
With time, shadows slowly sneak over the colors, and they swallow the world in small bites.
If only I could stop time and freeze the world in its setting.
Imagine an infinite cotton candy sky leading to, but never arriving at the night.

Rain drips down my window pane.
Infinity freezes in time.

The storm-
The pain,
The sorrow,
The darkness,
The emotion -
It all falls through time.

It feels like I'm falling too.
Falling

            Falling

                         Falling

                                     Falling

                                                 Falling

                                                              F­alling.

Falling like the raindrops.
Except I come down in tears.

Let’s soar through the galaxy and find our own cosmic corner of the universe.
I hear the stars look even more beautiful when you’re among them.

Touch is always a reciprocal transaction. Both our hands feel the electricity surge when the initial contact occurs. From there, our senses merge, and it’s impossible to tell where I end and you begin.

Touch me.
...
Or am I touching you?

I’ll tell you a secret if you come in real close and promise to keep it when you need it the most.
…
…
…
(You’re beautiful even as your tears stain your pillow. The world is just happy you’re alive. We are falling in love with your every infinity, and we’re hoping you stay for awhile. We love you, we need you, we’re so proud of your fight. Stars can only twinkle when they’re placed in the night.)
…
…
…
Now put this in your pocket and hold it real close. Save it for when you need it the most.

Write our story in cursive so we can connect ourselves through time.

Questions without answers demand the most time.
Trying to find what we never can find -  
The meaning of life,
Where we go when we die,
The reason I’m alive,
Why I struggle to survive.

To get all the answers, we just have to die.

Poetry courses through my veins, but it only escapes when I make myself bleed.

A heart can’t beat when it’s dripping on the floor.
A mind can’t hope when it’s digging its own grave.
A mouth can’t smile unless it has a reason to live.
A foot can’t step unless it has the freedom to run.
A hand can’t hold when it’s held against its will.
An eye can’t see when people are blind to its suffering.
A body can’t move when it’s shackled to a stone.
A person can’t live when he's denied the life he deserves.

You deserved so much more.

Sometimes an anchor double-knots itself around my soul, and it refuses to let go. It drags me down to the bottom of the sea, making me forget I ever knew how to float.

Distance can't dull your shine, honey.
You were made for the stars.

Words spill out like a waterfall.
Tears tumble over the edge.
My current adheres to no border,
I spill so much with no sense.

I am a dangerous waterfall.
People don't want to get close.
Hurling myself so I plummet,
But, loneliness hurts the most.

I know it's too much to fall with me.
I know you're scared of the edge.
I know I could bring you down with me.
But I'm just so alone on the ledge.

People don't want to chase waterfalls.
Instead, they're looking for streams.
They want to wade in calm waters,
Where people can say what they mean.

But I want you to swim in my stories.
I want you to wade in my love.
If only I knew how to get to my stream,
Then maybe you'd want to come.

Healing is finding something to write about besides the pain.

I look at her, and I can’t believe she thinks I’m beautiful when she looks back at me.

Baby, we make poetry just by looking at each other.
Come here, and let's make our bodies rhyme.

I create infinities in my mind to cope with the signs that we’re all going to die.

"I myself am the sun and the moon."

I am the sun.
I provide light to other people as best I can while they go about their lives. Even though I burn up as time goes on, people are counting on me to take care of myself. I need to keep myself warm and functioning. Sometimes clouds get in the way of my shine, yet I continue to keep track of time and change. Every morning I rise with new hopes. Every night I set with a new perspective.

I am the moon.
I guide others in their darkness while remaining calm and steadfast, even though the darkness can consume me. Solace from the the exhausting day is enough for the night. Sometimes, I have friends in the stars. More often, I exist without a companion as the whole world sleeps. Yet, this loneliness is bearable. I am simply doing my job, giving everyone a break, and letting us all rest.

I am both the sun and the moon.
This may leave me confused about my role in this world, but it also leaves me reassured that the world is more complex than I give it credit for. We can be more than one thing.

We can be both the sun and the moon.
We can be both warm and cold.
We can be both bright and calm.
We can be both happy and sad.
We can be both.

Writing wages war on the monsters inside me.
I pierce them with my pen and lay them down to die.

I’m the person I know best, but there’s still so much I don’t know. How strange to be a stranger even to yourself.

The song of the cicadas.
The stories in the sand.
The floating of the butterflies.
Leaves shaking like hands.

The whispers in the wind.
The dancing of the ants.
The stillness of the mountains.
The shivers through the plants.

The patience of the sunshine.
The blanket of the shade.
The potential in the skyline.
An embrace from this world she made.

Breath settles on my skin, so soft.
This moment feels like a smile.
I hear a voice in the cicadas,
"Sit and rest for awhile."

Watch the sun step slowly.
Listen to the speech of the wind.
The plants are performing for you, my dear.
The shade is inviting you in.

The ants will teach you to free-style.
The butterflies, how to have fun.
The sky will promise protection,
While the sand just waits to become.

Nature, it travels alongside you.
She begs you to act like a friend.
If you weave your stories together,
She'll entertain you until the end.

So, listen to the song of the cicadas.
Write your stories in sand.
Nature will rest there beside you,
In this world she created by hand.