Tired of the same old same temptations
the draining of the will
high and dry on a plateau

the Sun beating down on your head
and a thirst as deep as a desert
vultures wheeling circles in the sky

a voice comes like a mirage
the poetry of a God
chanting the hours in psalm

and an angel comes in disguise
sits next your carcass
breathing life into your soul.

In good time the leaves will turn with fall.
The hearts of boney legged men will tone,
And I'll still be waiting,
Breath baited,
As I watch from a distance our connection
Drip toxicity and dissolve the fragile string that held us
In a perfect repulsive state with brilliant resonance,
Suspended at an equilibrium that allowed these trees to paint their seeded leaves.

You're probably laying on your back staring at your inviting ceiling, slightly transparent,
Swirling together your collected pool of hopes and dreams
Just like me
At this very moment.
You are listening to indie music,
And so am I.
Sometimes I imagine we are listening to the same song simultaneously
So we can think the same things together,
Disregarding the time zone difference.


I just wanted to tell you that I would have walked across the gym with you at graduation,
You would have cried with me,
We would have hugged and held hands,
And we would have celebrated until our eyelids puffed and our hands became pruny
From our laughter infused tears.
We would have drank soda and not beer after the ceremony,
Because we never needed anything but ourselves, and maybe a camera, to have fun.
We would have changed out of dresses into sweatpants and flip flops, because we never needed to impress each other.
We would have driven in my car and screamed out the windows
Until someone called the cops and we ran away into my bedroom for safety.
My mother would have had a hug waiting for you,
A cake for us,
And a smile for eternity.

We would have made our way upstairs
To lay on the cheep Home Depot carpet and stair at my own ceiling, just as inviting as yours,
Counting the stars through the drywall we pretend to be invisible.
In the background,
Distanced enough for thoughts to still process,
A playlist of us beats in a fuzzy muffle from the dying iPod dock,
The kind of music you can't help but get high from.
We would talk of our plans and our futures and pretend they weren't separate,
Dreaming of sky scraping homes and earth-bounding trips to Asia and Europe,
Finding our destinies and origins here and there,
Then coming together to share our experiences.
And when things get too sad we would just enjoy the music and remember everything we had, everything we have, and everything we will lose.

I guess what I'm trying to say is listening to good music makes me miss you more than my poetry can begin to express,
And I'm so selfish for wishing you never left me,
Because I know you're happy there and I'm happy here without you,
But I'd be happier if we were listening to music under the same invisible ceiling.

I wish that God would whisper to his disciples
The words no one desires to believe.
I wish that God would **** his followers pretending to embody his words in gravitating accuracy, that
They are preparing for the end when really they're creating it.
The apocalypse is now,
In production as we speak,
Taking its form in floods,
Extinctions,
Heat waves,
And toxic wastelands.

Too late has man found solutions for irreversible problems.
And too long has man found comfort behind curtains and blinds,
Sheltered from the singeing reality
That is what Revelation preached.
The apocalypse is now,
And we hold the torches
Scorching the grass blades knotted through our toes.
We hold the torches and feel the power wielded in our palms,
Realizing the undeniable capacity of energy in the burning branches in our hands.
But humans love fire,
And that remains constant.

I found my mother outside in our shed
holding her trowel in May.
We walked to the farmers market
and she told me where vegetables come from.
The morning was spent planting seeds and bulbs
close to her heart, my future siblings.

Mother taught me the painstaking birth
of cabbage and watermelon.
We were impatient in the kitchen
while we stirred soup and noodles,
peaking out the kitchen window.

I started planting trees for distraction.
Mom told me
I would hammock under them in time,  
shade my forehead in leafy kisses,
turn my novel pages with soft breeze.

Father watered the tomatoes to relieve
mother from the neck-breaking June sunlight.
She watched through the doorway.
Each night, with baby monitors wired through
cracked windows, Mom waited to pick
her devotions from stem until they were ready.

In August I saw my grandma smile
in crow’s feet happiness
at life that she held in cupped palms,
covered in placenta dirt.

Dad’s ocean is washing away
The frame of our house.
I am on the second floor,
Riding the waters of Mother’s tears.
I plug my ears with my fingers
And hold my breath;
I still feel the ebb and flow of his rage.
The hypothermic water winds
Around my toes like nooses.

My body is a life vest
Floating on top of a row boat bed.
Its boards are rotten and creaking
Under my adult weight.
Our house is a fish tank. Everyone is staring
through our windows with bulbous eyes as
Rivers flow from our pains of glass.