There was a feeling by the name Romance,
who asked if I would like to dance,
but clumsy I
could not comply,
my legs fell off by pure mischance.

it takes me all day
to finish a bowl of soup-
it is cold and sits on my desk,
i chip away at it until it's gone

i feel like i'm holding
a pile of Lego bricks,
sorting them by color
instead of connecting their parts

my eyes wander to
only what interests me,
and i tend to move by
either branching or spiraling

my feet are running on hot pavement
and i'm exhausted,
by the time i look around,
i'm in the same place

On my journey to my grandmother’s, the landscape holds my attention with subtleties.
Muted hues of soft lavender, pale brown, and ashy green painted outside the dashboard. Everything peeking out from a gentle coat of dust.
Yellow weeds and thistles dot the golden hills.

This corner of the country feels like a cherished family heirloom. The color palette resonates with my only sense of familiarity. Maybe it is my fixation on the colors themselves that buffer any sense of grief I carry towards instability.  None of us in my family have claimed permanency in structure. Yet, my grandmother’s home is a sanctuary.

you’re a deep canyon.
and I sit perched on the plane’s wing -
goggles on, sipping tea.

from up here,
you're a thin black outline,
a giggle and a wonder.

On a bright and sunny day
On the 18th of May
An earthquake resulted in a landslide
That unleashed a massive force brewing inside

The eruption removed the upper 1,300 feet
The magma chamber burst- rock & gas blown at supersonic speed
Within 8 miles, all was instantly wrecked
With a shockwave so big, what could one expect?

As the north ***** collapsed down
All life forms began to drown
Every tree in sight swept away
19 miles outward; a ruinous ashtray

Silence breaks as ash falls like snow
The once mature landscape now just an embryo
What had become a lifeless terrain,
Now shows us what 35 years can attain.

After the volcanic cataclysm
Biological legacies determine the pace of new ecosystems
The following colonizers proceed:
Lupines, pearly everlasting, alder shrubs, and fireweed.

The coniferous forest was replaced
The deciduous Alder trees won the race
The new forest attracts grasshoppers, birds, and ants
Larks, gophers, sparrows and deer mice take a chance

Out of 256 species alive prior to the eruption,
86 are now in production
20% of the surface is covered with grass and legumes
Struggling young trees that endeavor to bloom

Ecological gaps begin to fill
Strong ecosystems form, production is uphill.
Elk arrives to munch on grass and bark
The thick forests attract birds, like larks.

Fallen logs create nutrients and feed biofilm to the lake
Floating ecosystems now have plenty resources to take
Elevation affects the rate of recovery reports.
The higher the colder, which means the growing season is short.

The loss of trees means more room for sun
As the lake warms up, there’s increased production
More insects and bigger fish, like rainbow trout
Salamanders are scarce now, not many about.

Lupines deserve their own stanza, those purple legumes.
They help make a pumice landscape suitable for others to bloom.
Lupines create essential nutrients the pumice is low on
Other plants are thankful for the rare space to grow on.

All this information hopefully to inspire,
Life pulls through in situations most dire.
Mount Saint Helens’ destructive wake is seen clearly today,
The eruption that obliterated had also paved a way.

"There are two types of people in the world," he laughed after a heavy swig. I laughed and anticipated a mindless reply.
"Those who are pens, and those who are pencils".
An eye-roll dismissed the statement but a curious brow stayed in place.
"All I'm saying is that some folks have a certainty about them. Everything glides off their tongue like cursive dipped in black ink".
I thought of where I might fall on the spectrum.

My therapist recently asked me "have you ever tried mindfulness?"
I laughed a bit, remembering of the week-long mindfulness camp (sugarcoated for in-patient psychiatric care) I attended for troubled teens. I went to this twice.
This peaceful brain training was designed to give us a retreat when the world is too loud. During group therapy, most teens shared their experiences with domestic violence, yelling, S.A., running away, abuse. Endless. We were all numb, but there was so much comfort in being locked away with others who needed the respite as much as I did.
We would eat skittles and describe their flavor and textures. We would focus on our breaths. Make beaded art. Tell collaborative stories. Follow guided meditations laying on unfamiliar gym floors, giggling a bit as we "soared through clouds".
I jumped back into the talk session, remembering my dedication to mindfulness years ago. My anxiety followed me into adulthood. I think mindfulness can be out of reach, stupid.
And yet, I looked out of her dusty, sun filled window decorated with three vases of dry arrangements. My mind started to posture into how warm and antique this image felt. I felt hot, quiet tears building up from feeling that peace again.

I fit into a shell
whose size
lays in the palm
of your hand

I curl my body so it’s
matching the hollowed spiral
and is pressing gently against
the cool, smooth barriers

The noises are muffled
and the air inside here
is how I imagine it feels
to fly through the clouds.

Romanticism is
Melancholic at best
Always daydreaming
Each one a test

I'm a hopeless optimist,
Some may say.
Tossing petals on a silly rose,
wasting the day.

The idea of love,
So open and free
Thought provoking, mysterious
Until it gets to me.

Then I recall,
Why I prefer being alone.
It's hard to find peace,
In someone else's home.

By home, I mean mind
Two becomes one
You both have to share it
To simply enjoy the sun

Idiosyncrasies,
Start to synchronize
The way we view life
Is seen through one set of eyes

We become a machine,
Two bodies and one brain
A lovely entanglement
Loneliness has been slain.

You passed the test,
And you've set me free,
But only through binding,
The concept of 'you and me'

Romanticism is
Melancholic at best
Until the real thing comes,
And starts a fire in my chest.

When I am fond of someone,
I've always hidden.
Locking eyes with someone I'm so curious about
just has this feeling that makes me want to hide.
I've always hidden.
Behind mom's leg,
behind my locker,
in the details of my lunch,
in my comforter,
in my headphones,
in my fantasies.

The musky candle,
solely lighting
the black room,
casts a shadow of the bedside fern—
a delicate silhouette
swaying on the wall.

Follow me now-
As we exhale,
deepening til there's no air,

As we inhale,
let our eyes focus
on the buzzing space that lives
in between objects and bodies.

Bring your attention
to the pleasure of stillness,
the lingering taste of wine
on your tongue.

Feel the pull
of our quiet obsessions,
the gravity of our thoughts.

driving an old car in need of repairs
you feel every oddity
from the creaky, heavy door and
the every-so-often squeaky brakes,
the manual roll-down windows

sometimes you gotta hit the dash
to get your scratched CD playing,
old cars have warm static hums and
headlights glowing in amber
the sweet smell of carpeted seats baked in sun

when flirting with the future,
i drove a new car and it felt
as sterile as a spaceship -
you're unaware of its machinery that
makes it just like every other car.

If I had enough wits to fly,
I'd like to escape the sky,
I'd leave in mid-June,
wave bye to the moon
whilst riding a huge firefly.

This question will be the death of me.
It's not quite where we came from last,
nor where we pay taxes.
It's not where we want to be,
or the house we grew up in, or the nostalgia we feel in some cities.
It's not where our origins trace back to,
where our ancestors developed our roots,
in fact, I'd argue
home is not an external location.
It's not the soft grass in our front yards,
it's not the countryside or cityscape,
it's not the creaky wooden floors that collected dust on our socks,
Home is a feeling.
It nests within us during our travels while we're looking for it,
it is present when we rest our head
against a sunny window in the car.
Home is in friendships where laughing makes you cry
and crying makes you laugh,
it is in fleeting romances, holding hands,
the smell of you on my pillow,
it is with certain family members.
I find home in familiar smells and easy living,
it is in solitude and fresh air.
What a feeling of comfort,
where we can grab those fleeting moments,
and stitch them together like a grandiose stained glass window in a cathedral.
Home is a compilation of every place we have ever been,
are going to go, and where we are at presently.
What makes you feel at home?

With long ash blonde hair
freckles dotting my face and shoulders
rosy lips and cheeks from the sun
I am a young girl again
Laying on the Atlantic ocean shore
my back pressing into the soft sand
Letting the waves roll over me
laughing hysterically
as the salt water tickles my tummy
and I plug my nose

It was at this age I smiled cheek to cheek
without worrying about the layout of my teeth
I didn’t consider myself lonely
I had quite a lot of fun with my imagination
Not yet the age where I was preoccupied
with image or my emotions
Just living like the waves crashing over me

Snow falling
a sleeping baby  
flowers in bloom,
the crystallized night sky.

Hospital waiting rooms,
closed doors,
funerals,  
The bus, sometimes.

Empty sidewalks,
Fond eyes,
Motel balconies,
Most smiles.

4 a.m.
A deep breath  
Food pantry line,
Living alone.

I've lived somewhere over 50 homes by now.

The ones that stick out?

In Portland I rented a micro-studio. My first apartment I signed a lease on by myself. It had no in-unit kitchens: there was a communal kitchen on floor one. Bed came out the wall. best description: trendy, affluent, hipsters who want to live communally in theory, but eat out every day instead. Communal kitchen was empty. No one was ever home. We all went to the food carts across the street, later replaced by a hotel.

in Florida we had a pool (even the poor have pools in Florida) and the neighborhood ice cream truck sold drugs. That’s not important. It was the pool! I lived like a mermaid and it was the same pool I had my first kiss next to.

In Wisconsin we lived above a bead shop that turned into a dress shop that rented out prom dresses to the town. I watched the cozy middle-class flock to the shops beneath me. For being a town of 1,000 we had the coolest apartment since I could spy on the whole town and their frequent trips to the bakery.

In North Carolina we lived in a neighborhood called 'beverly hills' in Asheville - the house was interesting, not very bourgeois as the neighborhood title suggested. I wanted to turn the basement into a gaming center for kids. I spent a few days sweeping the spiders away and saved all of my summer allowance to buy Rock Band. We moved before I had anyone over.

My favorite house will always be my grandmother’s - somewhere in the middle of 20 acres in Eastern Oregon is my own version of an oasis. It is dry land, full of tumbleweeds and prone to wildfires, but something about the smoke stained carpets and 24/7 television noise feels most like home.

I keep hearing that
in order to exist properly
amongst your peers
you need a strong sense of self.
I think that
the stains on my shirt
melancholic playlist in my ears
grumbling tummy
and agitation with self help websites
might be as good as it gets for my early 20's.

and I'm tired of trying to be perfectly healthy all the time.
and I think capacity for constant self awareness is a privilege.

I keep a tight grip around
everything that hurts.
I keep asking my therapist
"how do we let go?"
and what does that really mean?
she says, so gently:
“if the pain was deep enough, you will have to let go many times”
I never realized I had that power
to do that
to inhale and exhale

The still, soft morning
A sun ray illuminates
The joy of being.

California
thank you for my birth  
never did revisit you  
except disneyland

Washington
thanks for being home  
the heart of a mountain stands  
lungs like evergreens  

Oregon
washington's tumor  
your coastlines are far superb  
please stay a secret  

Nevada
my ****** noses  
homeschooling and snowboarding  
miss your tumbleweeds  

Ohio
all I remember  
three legged cat in forest  
hillside four-wheeling  

North Carolina
the blue ridge mountains  
guitar hero and hopscotch  
made up for the snakes  

Florida
fondest memories  
most important, my first kiss  
beach had a nice view  

Wisconsin
how did I survive  
must have been warmth from others  
also my parka  

Texas
aunt's arms welcome me  
summer wraps me in her heat  
stars shine Texas-big

Idaho
chance brought me here first  
mountain peaks stole my whole heart  
now roots grow like sage

In my journal I wrote a little while waiting in the hospital lobby during my grandmother's appointment.
I observed others. Some elderly women looked tired, and a bit irritated with their paperwork tasks. They seem full of pain and impatience.
There was this one woman I noticed - she was raised up in an electric wheelchair, smiling out of squinted eyes with wrinkles like memory foam from decades of laughter.
She reminded me of the transition from summer to autumn.
Those first couple days of crisp weather and that restorative feeling you get and thought you forgot during the peak intensity of the heat.
Her face was full of youth and acceptance.
She knows everything will be alright.
And I find inspiration in her countenance and stop biting my fingernails.

there's a little room
with a round door
in the back of my heart
with a view of the ocean
it's here where i find myself
forgiving everyone and everything

the floorboards are worn smooth
from all my returning
i pass through corridors
where conversations
circle like trapped birds

but here, in this back room
there is only morning light
on bare wood, and a single chair
where i sit and watch waves
erase themselves over and over

sometimes i stay until sunset
when the water turns to copper
i know i'll leave again
dissolving into the sweet
clutter of being human,
my heart a crowded kitchen

but the door stays there
round like a full moon
waiting, and the waves
keep writing their one word
over and over: return

cold, blue skies
crisp air
and sun in my eyes
breathing deeply amongst the crowd
I feel like an installation
in a hotel lobby
or a decorative vase
with dry arrangements

empty yet amused eyes
peer beyond me
while I’m duct-taped to this pedestal
nailed into a wall
the frame of a painting
sitting in a display case.

Every decision I make is pushed by the ghost of my younger self and pulled by the blurry image of my future.

do you think
wallpaper wants to talk
to the people in the room?

don't you think there's wisdom
in wallpaper?
how it absorbs the stories and
the spinning revolving door
of people who come and go

love is
the friendly atlantic ocean
a lotion that never fully rubs in
humid air

love permeates
like a leaky roof
honey on toast
dandelions

Reverberations are the hardest part.
Navigating something that will inevitably flow through you
as if you have any control.
Think about it.
Someone jumps in the pool you’re in,
you have no choice but to let the waves and molecules
orbit around you.

It is what separation feels like. Jumping into a pool. Waves lapping out until finally they blend in the whole again.

This is all normal -
Petting dogs,
Nodding at strangers,
Holding the door open.

Sometimes this all makes me
Go underwater and cry,
Where my tears blend in with
Everything.

I wonder why
I'm even wondering why
we seek joy in these small moments.

I sit so naturally, perched,
On a tall, naked, tree branch
Puncturing the grey sky
With its vague horizon
And brisk, quiet air.

Everything I did was viewed through the lens
of some sophisticated world traveler.
You really critiqued me, from how I got on the bus,
your eyes checking my intuition of how to stand while it moved,
seeing how I engaged in conversation with strangers,
scanning the clothes I've curated,
and gladly noting how "little I seemed to care about them",
chalking everything up to "american ignorance",
to scoping my bookshelf for your overrated preferences,
you are prying into my music taste,
my palette,
my body.

Meanwhile,
I get on the bus per usual,
wide stance to balance the stop-and-go motions,
I tell people have a nice day and make small talk about most everything!
especially the weather,
my collection of clothes is a museum themselves,
I care and tend to each piece carefully,
I think American's are happy-go-lucky double edged swords,
My bookshelves,
music taste,
pallet,
and body
are all full of volumes
unreachable by those who try to see me through
their narrow monocular.

It's like finding a necklace in the dryer,
all knotted and twisted.
I keep trying to straighten it out,
writing about the same old stuff.

Maybe I'm not really fixing anything,
just fiddling with the knots.
Moving them around,
maybe I'm making progress.

Maybe it's better to laugh,
Set the dang-knotted things aside,
and to have a lighthearted dialogue
with your shadows.

shame shares a tight border with shyness
both remind me of being a skittish mutt

At my dear friend's kitchen table,
I am making an origami box
with beautiful floral paper.

Pressing down my thumb
to get that sweet crease—
part of this process is how I
am intending to practice mindfulness,
mostly to get my mind off
the heavy pit in my chest.

I keep looking out the sunny window
at evergreen trees and open blue skies,
trying to find a way
to take my focus off the origami box.

But I keep coming back
to the satisfaction
of the perfectly aligned crease,
and return, and return,

Until I have just made
three beautiful origami boxes—
each fold a breath,
each crease a moment of peace.

Found a penny heads up
Saw your face on it
Tossed it off the Broadway Bridge
There's nothing lucky about
finding a small man's face
staring up at you
on a peaceful walk

This morning I found myself
sorting paperclips by size—
the way my mother taught me
in motel rooms across southern America,
organizing what little certainty
we could hold in our hands.

I’m on my own now, and I still wake
some nights with that familiar itch,
with this restlessness that whispers:
nothing here is permanent, child.
Not the dust on windowsills,
not the coffee stain on carpet,
not even this gravity
that holds us to one place.

I've spent years
trying to unpack this blessing:
how each goodbye taught me
to find home in the strangest things—
in the comfort of all my belongings
jammed haphazardly in my car,
in the methodical way I label
everything I own, as if naming
things would make them stay.

I handle each object
like a rosary bead, each dish
and book a meditation on what
we carry, what carries us.

Some collect seashells
or pressed flowers. I collect
empty spaces, fill them briefly
with my particular silence,
then leave them blessed
with a swelling, lingering
air of sentimentality.