When you approach a green tree
you must cut it down at an angle.
If you swing your blade horizontally
the rubber trunk will bounce it back
and there’s no telling where it might end up.
I learned to wield a machete at ten;
sharpen the steel til it would split a hair when dropped.
I watched my father tame entire jungles,
transforming briar patches to gazebo valleys,
trimming limbs, splitting branches,
fashioning his throne where I hailed him as king.
I would stand poised with blade over head
imagining I was simultaneously samurai and ninja,
gripping tight the sword only I could pull from the stone.
I studied his kung fu from a place by his side.
Forward enough in his peripheral that he always had the chance
to see he had strength in numbers;
however small that number might be.
His bootprints were always much bigger than mine,
but it didn’t matter to me.
I learned to walk with lengthy stride.
I learned to spit and work
until the jungle had drank its fill of your sweat
or the sun caused you to yield.
I learned that with the strength of my arm and well crafted steel
I could trim life from the living;
tell nature how I felt it should be.

My grandfather had a relationship for some time
with a terrifying elixir.
As soon as the bottle left his lips
knives came tumbling out after.
Words, each unique, like snowflake razors,
slashing green confidence from the legs of my father
at an angle only someone close to you can achieve.
Trimming away hints of sentimentality.
Cutting off entire limbs of pride.
Chipping at his shoulders until he learned to bow
to an old disillusioned king.
You can run all you want to
but sooner or later
he would tell you how your nature should be.
These blades buried deep in my father’s bones,
hiding behind his teeth,
growing roots of their own.
Building fences where they should not be.
Guarding ****** valleys my grandfather laid bare
in the forrest of worth and loving.

My father ran before his legs could carry him.
Trying to outrun his familial ties.
Trying to find the edge of his father’s shadow,
all the while running with knives.
He ran into my mother at least two times
and soon learned he too had a shadow.
My father never fell in love with the elixir.
She still smelled like his father’s cologne.
But as I grew older,
as my soul sprouted trees,
he loosened the blades from behind his teeth.
And so with ****** tongue and visibly chipped shoulders
he taught me how to swing.
Stand closer than any stranger could ever come to be.
Stand tall so you might be mistaken for a king.
Stand strong so your knees don’t betray your shortcomings
and when you see them in your son,
glaring back with green eyes,
you lift your blade at an angle and swing.
Conjure your father’s shadow
still looming in your dreams
and extend it yet another generation.

When you approach a green tree
you must cut it down at an angle.
At a young tree’s side
is the most lethal place to be.

You will not fit in my inbox,
If you love me, you’ll never try.
Never let a font decide the sincerity
of any good morning or goodnight.
Speak earthquakes to me slowly,
close as you can to my side.
Let me feel your lips
gently graze my earlobe
without an electrical circuit in sight.
Our love will not fit into 1s and 0s.
If you know me, I’ll never try.
Never let a hashtag envelop my sentiment
or pull the digital wool over my eyes.
I’ll lay grooves in your wax
you can play back later.
Our proximity too analog
for the technicolor sky.

Come close and I’ll whisper
the ingredients of Spring

one part droopy-eyed daffodils
one part laughter outdoors
two parts sunshine
one part rain that smells like still-buried clover
one part luck
one part superstition
one hour looking at the tops of trees
four corners of wind that will send you spinning
three days of interspersed winter
two parts looking forward
one part looking back
countless incredible reasons to sing
two heartfuls of love
five drops of green
one part painting yourself a different color
one part relearning to wink
one part smiles
one brand new horizon
one part poetry people might actually read

Come closer and I’ll whisper
the ingredients of Spring
They are nothing but you and I
and the world beneath

It is nearly spring
my laughter told me
time for those hidden
to rise

Time for the heavens
to cry without reason
the season of frivolity
and game

Time for those silent
to sing with new passion
for the earth to fashion dresses
of green

Time for the giving
of names and embraces
for the faceless to turn
and be seen

Time for the secrets
read only in sunshine
to unwind the concept
of fame

It is nearly spring
my itchy soul told me
time for those hidden
to rise

There is a quiet conversation
we hold between our ribs;
the dialogue of flesh and spirit.
Most have heard it once or twice.
Some don't know its timbre.
Others find themselves in the woods,
knee deep in a creek's cold waters,
and their bones begin to echo
the angels in the wind.

A clumsy goodnight
left me chasing the words
that fell from my lips
to the pavement.
What I meant to say
was I hate it when you leave me
before I've found a way to make you smile,
before I've found the angle to hold you from
so you won't see the knives they are throwing.
I'm not saying they won't be there,
because there will be knives as long as we're breathing.
I just can't rest knowing that you can't either.
I want peace for your mind
and a better goodbye
to form itself quickly
on my tongue.

I went looking...
looking through legs
so shiny and bare;
looking through the eyes of a stranger;
looking through arms
tangled in dances,
through fingers gripping
the satin sheets;
looking into eyes painted with fire,
across the lips of one saying
"more is never enough,"
across the lying lips
and wayward hips
of countless washed up sirens;
looking through the dessert
and courting each mirage,
each cracked and broken sea floor,
each petrified promise;
looking through the heat
from a thousand neon suns
shining down on the hopeless,
the secret;
looking through the savagery,
through rite and omen,
through the increasingly hypnotic gaze
of priestesses and virgins;
looking through open mouths
into the lonesome hollows
where souls bring pennies on the pound;
looking through piles of amputated dignity,
through prosthetic dreams
that have played themselves out;
looking through fiddle shaped shadows
and straining to hear their mozart memories,
watching them sway,
watching them play,
never hearing a whisper of music;
looking through daughters
and sisters long estranged,
through cousins and neighbors,
through the cause of someone's tears,
through the pain so blatantly fueling desires;
haven't you heard that heartache is kindling?
haven't you ever thrown yourself into a sea?
didn't its hands feel just like comfort
all the while building your cage?
haven't you heard the song of the ******
in many a mirror's conversation?

I went looking for satisfaction
in the soot covered ruins
of *****
and fell into the lake of fools;
where the ego swims freely
and should anyone condemn
you are never found without an excuse.
I went looking for you in Gomorrah.
You were no where to be found,
and the gods I once believed in
could not even speak your name.
You, whose tongue is made of lightning,
who spoke across my sky,
you saw me naked,
and looking,
and never blinked an eye.
Your love is a force unfailing,
undeserved,
never blind,
calling me back to the world of the living,
unlearning my ears
of the mirror's lie.