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.

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.

The beach. The ocean. The sunset. A cruise ship.

With eyes wide to the world setting around you, the floating city races the falling sun to the horizon. It’s fading movements keep track of time; it reminds us of its passing.

The beach. The ocean. The sunset. A (fading) cruise ship.

The ship drifts closer to its oblivion beyond the skyline. We beg it to stay as long as it can, but it is slowly swallowed by the next destination.

The beach. The ocean. The sunset.

Soon, the sun chases the ship into a world that we don’t have access to. We never do find out if the sun is able to catch up or where they go when they’re gone. All we know is he takes the rest of the world with him, and we are left with darkness.

No beach. No ocean. No sunset. No cruise ship.

Only darkness.

And you, you must go collide with your next horizon.

Eventually, you’ll make it to the floating city in the sky.

In the face of fear, we can choose one of
two things:

Fleeing
From what we cannot overcome,

Or

Fighting
When we’re in the mood to surprise ourselves.




The feeble can choose to be brave.

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.