My soft futon beckons,
And I have saved half a bottle
Of companionship and comfort
For tomorrow's adventure.
There are frustrations and exhaustions
sewn throughout my brain,
But now is the time
To put them to sleep.
Tonight we spend long hours together,
Spilling childhoods and chilled liquor,
Keeping the night bright,
And wrapping ourselves in laughter.
Tomorrow we venture forth,
Face down our differences,
And search for some new way
To fight back the dark...
After we sleep.

While wandering Wonderland
My companions ask,
"What do you want to see next?"
"Anything!" I respond,
Genuinely curious,
But propelled mostly by dreams
Of hot, savory noodles,
Fresh pastries in new textures,
And all of the extravagance,
Novelty, and confusion
Of the next unfamiliar feast.

KFC, Box Wine, and Oreos.
We'd scream, howl, and cry
every thought under the moon
for hours in your Jetta,
wandering McElroy Park,
or drunk on the living room carpet.
We'd take notes so we could "make art"
out of our feelings,
the laugh through tears
at the absurdity of it all.
Together,
there was fire and magic
in the dark.
Is anything forever?
Of course not.
We did that then,
But we know it now.

"I could live here,
In the mountains,"
I say,
Any time I go anywhere
with mountains.

The words are involuntary.
No spells have been cast
Yet I am enchanted
For better or worse.

"I could go there,
Anywhere,"
I say,
Any time you say
you want to go.

Burn Area.
Take quiet, reverent steps
through the charred steeple spires
and listen to the roaring echo
of an event so fierce
and nightmarishly tragic
that we must soothe ourselves, saying,
"Everything in its own time," and
"This ecosystem needs fire to grow."
But systems are merely products
of their conditions,
and nothing needs lightning.
Life doesn't thrive on tragedy -
It exists in spite of it.
Just as we are not born in space
and yet we hurtle through it,
So too does bright fireweed spring
between these spindly, blackened corpses.

The Sea of Tranquility descends tonight
into waning, gibbous shadow
As I bear witness to the sight,
I can't help but wonder -
How many moons
have I waited and watched,
And which cycle signals
the end if this working?
My rituals greet phases
full after new
Celebrating faces
both blood red and new
Eclipsing even the sun
from full view.
It seems by now
the spell must be sown,
And perhaps it has been
For while I was waiting and watching,
I certainly have grown.

The poisoning isn't always painful
like a rattlesnake or arsenic.
Sometimes,
it is a whisper,
soft and sweet,
like a lullaby that sings "carbon monoxide,"
a bit too much fun too quickly
as you slip into a black overdose,
a poppy-soaked dreamland.
Sometimes,
it is a fragment of reality
that was real once
but exists now as some new non-truth,
the thing you want to hear
picked out of the words spoken,
a misguided make-believe.
Sometimes,
it is a song we both love
the night we heard it
and the memory I built around it,
a cloying clawing
corrupting with a buzz and haze,
a saccharine toxin to the imagination.

We are ADULTS with AGENCY
and the power to manifest our desires
if we can only be courageous.
Therefore,
Why not do so?
They have called me
Crazy, Foolish, and Daring
for sharing my poems and passions so freely,
But I am simply unwilling
to waste time lying.

He's a rare kind
With rare kindness
So he'd never
In a moment
Of electrostatic tension
Close the gap
Between our lips.
And truthfully,
It has been so long
And I've learned so much
About consent
And ruined friendships
That I don't remember how.

Even in my dreams
We just run around
Being stupidly clever
And when you leave
I still turn around
Wearing a stupid grin
As if to say
To no one in particular,
So that's him -
Isn't he amazing?

Why is it always
the days when I miss you the most
that I return to find you
in the foulest of mads?
(I try to fix it,
Because of course I do,
Until I remember all the power songs
Telling me not to bother.)
This is how I learned to be alone.

Break the stale night -
You twinkle in and out of my life
Tasting like San Francisco.

I have learned to love the quiet moments
When it's just me,
Dragging my toes across the fitted sheet,
Petting one long, silky leg with the other,
Fingernails tracing familiar paths
Down naked roads
Longing to quench their thirst for life
And the things they can't touch.
With skin taut and tingly,
And core soft and warm like butter,
I am squirming with secrets unspilt,
Deeds undone,
And havoc unwrought,
Waiting for a magic word or touch
To come undone.

I recognize loneliness
in myself
as an indicator light:
something is in need of change.

By myself,
it means that I have things to learn,
and more time alone
is the only way to tease them out.
I am never lonely too long
by myself.

With others,
it is so much harder to diagnose.
It is deeper, darker, and lonelier
with others.

My ribcage:
Full, then hollow,
Snatches of memory,
then fear,
Press, snag, then release,
Like Breathing.
Heavy, ponderous breathing.

Already,
Fall's chill licks my spine,
And rather than dread,
my shoulders shiver
with the memory of last year,
at this time,
When the sun in the leaves
Held an indomitable shine.
For then I traipsed
Through brilliant reds,
Brilliant hope,
And brilliant love -
Through soft wool,
Soft song,
And soft heartbreak -
Through quiet frost,
Quiet awe,
And quiet perseverance.
The dwindling days held secrets
Only a fresh heart could hear,
And these sweet mysteries
Were both balm and poison
to my heart and ear.
This year,
my cold frame remembers,
With gut still abuzz,
Eyes still alight,
And chest still aflame,
But it has all been muted
To a soft, pulsing glow.
This cycle has gripped me hard,
And wrung much from my dream-drenched core,
This glow a mere echo of passions before,
As autumn slowly falls once more.

Oh, red Mars,
So close in space and mind,
Your presence stirs a storm here,
As above you fall behind.
Oh, retrograding god,
You wage your wars in me,
My choices all are second-guessed,
Devoid of certainty.
Oh, oxidizing plains,
Hung high in glowing sight,
You're far from the abrasive truths,
That I must face tonight.

Most mornings, my first waking thought is:, ”Life is the best gift anyone has ever received,
surpassed only by consciousness and freedom.”

When this happens, it’s impossible to leave
without first setting a plan to pursue
the sparks that ignite my ephemeral flame.
I want to leap with abandon, 
fill the day with never-befores, 
and share every last thing in my head.

But the long days have ways of reminding me
that I am a player
in the less existential realities of others.
That I chase fruitless romantic dreams.
That I am not truly free.
That if I don’t slow,
I will destroy every structure
that scaffolds my sturdy life.

But is it worth the fall?
I’m afraid that I might truly think it is.
When I feel that shine -
when I have that glimmer in reach -
when I’m intoxicated with the scent and the buzz -
when I begin to glow -
I really do.

But of course, I could be wrong.
And maybe my freedom is like a religion.
It feels real to me,
but all evidence points toward the contrary.

I can pinpoint the day,
The place,
The hour,
And the clothes we were wearing.
You stood too close
As you murmured a joke,
And the scent you wore filled my head
As I laughed and laughed.
I marvel that this subtle quake
Could set everything in motion,
And yet,
I've been adrift ever since.

Like treading water
Like waking from dreams
to find the day hazy and surreal
Like the inability to stem
the begging hunger
that threatens to rend
polite tasks asunder
Is waiting to return
to the mountains
and real life
with you.

There are moments that wake you up
That knock you squarely
from what once passed as reality
into a new frame of being.

These are the moments,
When the Milky Way
snaps into perfect clarity,
When a breeze off a creek
whispers the cyclical secrets of its past,
When perfect music or perfect silence
replaces the voices in your ears,
When your hand is held with care
and you're electrically grounded,
When you're suddenly in existential peace
with all of your fears.

These are momentary lapses in the definite -
Brief flashes of eternal significance
in the obvious meaninglessness of life.
Moments that transcend the inevitability of death.
A reason for existing in a reasonless existence.

They're such shiny chemicals:
Dopamine, Norepinephrine, Phenylethylamine.
Life shimmers,
and each day is painted with purpose
When dosed with such potency.

I would like to believe that love,
The long-lasting kind,
The one you're supposed to want,
The one that settles you,
Where you grow old and spend Wednesday evenings answering emails and rewatching some old baking show in ***** sweats
Is enough to keep life interesting.
But chemistry doesn't always work that way.

My path might dictate some other measure of wholeness,
And more than one type of love,
And more than a couched lookalike storybook ending.
My path may require
Risk, Adventure, Longing,
Questioning, Exploration, Pain,
Brilliant platonic wildfires,
Intellectual dalliances,
And unrequited amorosity.
In short, my path may require some trailblazing.

But this precious neural spark
In my body
That keeps me in love with love
Is mine to keep
For as long as it continues to shine.

In my deepest of souls
I do not want to be owned,
Do not find pleasure in owning others,
Do not want to call or be called
by titles that ring false
such as mistress, goddess, or little girl,
Can not be loved as anything more or less
than a fellow traveler,
Love to tease, charm, chase, and impress,
but ultimately appreciate and wonder.
This bed of expectations
begins to scare me,
and I long for simpler times
of *****, pillowtalk, and first kisses.

Just put it behind you,
Just keep yourself busy,
Just list all the things
You can touch, hear, and see.
Pretend it was nothing
Pretend it’s not real
But don’t say you’re sorry
For things that you feel.

Or do say sorry!
I don’t know - is that wrong?
No - don’t say a thing
Just move right along.
Just skip to tomorrow
Just keep today fast
Just let time change hands
From Future to Past.

Just breathe, and get lost,
In the radio’s wails
It echoes your secrets
And tells all your tales.
Just breathe, and fill hours
Don’t look at your phone,
The past may lay bare,
But tonight is your own.

And finally, be ever
so kind to your soul
Have patience with all
Of your amorous arts.
Give yourself graciousness
Lovely and whole -
The same that you hold
For all other hearts.

Everything, it seems,
is a study in entropy.
Everything changes or collapses,
And living is either
Fighting madly
to keep it all together
or standing strong
as it all collapses and changes
around you,
until you too
collapse and change
out of existence.
Living is either
Grabbing hold of everything
and screaming as each attachment
is ripped and rended
from your grasp
or letting all slip through your fingers,
never feeling anything
except in passing.
Living is a dance in limbo,
Wanting the best of both lives,
And living neither.

It's the fourteen-minute, fifty-two-second
Electric Ladyland ultra-slow cut
Of Jimi Hendrix's Voodoo Chile,
And with each hot, languid, aching riff,
My lips
Press and Praise,
Taste and Tease,
Catch and Release,
Wildly and methodically
Covering every square inch
Of your jawline,
earlobe,
collarbone,
and down.
The mesmerizing jangle
of electric rock *****
Chains us,
Entrances us,
Drugs us,
Leads us,
And there is nothing in this world
But your scent,
my lips,
your shiver,
my breath,
and our hands.
I swear, the moon turns a fire red,
And we're a pitched electric flame.
Play that song and tell me
That you can't imagine the same.

In a daydream
You kissed me.
It was clumsy,
But measured.
Slow,
But thoughtful.
A gamble
To be mulled over.

In a night dream
You kissed me.
It was intentional,
And passionate.
Sudden,
And enveloping.
A fire
Coursing with the unspoken.

In a daydream
We are playful and cautious,
Determined to make it work.
In a night dream
We burn right up
Until there's nothing left.
And when I wake from either
I must calm my hopeful heart,
And hold dreams and reality
In places far apart.

"I'm a synesthete," I said.
"The neurons lay close in my head.
I'm always mixing stimuli,
For example, letter 'A' is red.
For me, everything's got to be
In color, value, shade, and hue.
Sounds, tastes, names, words,
feelings, memories, people, you."

"Me?" he asked, so curiously,
(I knew the question held in store)
"What color do you think I'd be?"
(A question I've been asked before)
And though I've always answered true
And never been shy to reveal
A lavender, or slate, or blue
This time, I pause before I spill...

"You are the world in the golden hour.
Glittering, gleaming, and perfectly grand.
You are a paintbrush on every flower
Sweeping out across the land."

"You are a hillside dripping in honey,
Drenched in sweet, auriferous splendor.
I'm not sure how - but it's so funny -
You're the best iteration of every color."

"You're orange and red; an unwavering light,
Your name is a hopeful, amber belief,
You're apex of day, pinnacle of sight,
And my time in your glow is always too brief"

"Then, with the twilight's parting streams,
You are periwinkle memory.
Until you're the moon's reflective beams -
The pearlescent silver of my dreams."

And with a pang I realize,
That I should not have chattered such,
For anyone with ears or eyes
Can tell that I've revealed too much.

And me?
I'll be fine.
I'll go through waves of feeling everything
But I will always be fine.
Wearing Band-Aids around you,
Then running,
Running my mouth,
Running my eyes,
And getting high alone.

He creates miracles
And I don't know how to handle it.
I want to show him off,
But he is not mine to share.
A rare, crafted magic
Flows forth from his clever hands
Turning the world around him
Into banks to hold rivers of the stuff.
I am not the only one stymied and awed.
How then, am I alone,
With my strongly beating heart
Watching as he creates miracles?

I never cared much for car talk,
But when he speaks, I'm intrigued,
And I don't know why.

Most men speak in tones that imply
I don't know anything,
Can't understand simple machines,
Have never seen an engine block,
And just want to watch as they talk.
But he is genuinely fascinated
With systems and forces,
And wants to share.
His passion consumes me,
And I listen, hoping to learn.

On switchbacking forest roads,
Over potholed washboard,
By steep cliff dropoffs,
My head swims with emergency "what ifs"
But not with him.
He flies over loose gravel
And I squeal with euphoric trust and delight.
He drives twice the posted speed,
And I find myself shamelessly sunk
Into a wet seat.
He pumps the brakes
And I'm bowing to the king,
Brazenly hoping that someday
He'll flip a carnal handbrake turn,
Wondering if he cares enough to show off,
Seduced like so many before me
By oil, rubber, and gasoline.

Oh Summer,
Would that you would make me your bride,
For l'll come back to you endlessly,
Body and soul
Brimming to full
With the deepest parts of me
Both at peace and at play,
Consistently
Sun-kissed,
Wind-blown,
Soaked in halcyon brightness
To the bone,
This divine passion
Never fully served
By memory alone.
Oh Summer,
My truest love,
Would that with you I could stay,
For I hold you in heart year-long,
And pine all the while you're away.

Sometimes I wonder
if we were really meant to be,
if our irregular edges
wouldn't fit better elsewhere,
if our promises weren't made
by two totally different people.
But then I remember,
there's no such thing as "meant to be",
we weren't molded as two
completely fulfilled entities in one,
people change,
and love can and will,
be found where chemistry strikes.
But our partnership is a choice.

And maybe it was foolish to choose
to anchor two seaworthy ships,
both headed for adventure
on opposite seas
so early in their journeys.
And yet, there are so many
places I would not have been,
things I would not have felt, and
conversations I would not have had,
without you.

Not all days are smooth sailing,
and I still intend to see other shores,
but we know that now,
and we have each others' oars.
We belong to no one,
And yet, I'm yours.

She invites me up,
And it has been so long
that it's the first time again.
Tumbling onto hot sheets,
Shirts, shorts, socks,
Everything innocent,
Everything snug,
Everything hot.
And suddenly lips,
And suddenly pulse,
And suddenly fingertips grazing
turn something inside me
turn to hands clutching and grasping,
and arching and pulling,
and the missing puzzle piece
is suddenly about to fill!
I know her -
is it...
could it be...
And she slides away.
She is me,
and she has had her fill,
But I am still hot.
I wake in sweat,
pulling layers
from my sticky flesh.
Even in my fevered dreams,
I am too much.

I have made the night mine,
no longer asking,
"May I accompany you?"
Instead, inquiring
"Would you like to accompany me?"
I have made the forests mine,
no longer requesting
"May I show you this place?"
Instead, fielding
"Will you show me this place?"
I have made the mountains mine,
no longer begging
"When shall we go?"
Instead,
Filling my calendar,
Filling my backpack,
Filling my heart
with what is mine
And going.

In May
The forest
Erupts
In aromas
"Did you miss me?"
It teases.

The mountain
Peaks
Denuded
Of white shawls
Flirt
With the sun.

My body
Subsists
Efficiently
On fruit,
Nuts,
And clear, cool melt
In May.

Drunk girl wants a cigarette
To re-taste the ash of past regret.
Drunk girl wants to straddle you
And kiss you 'til your lips turn blue.
Drunk girl must relieve her chest
And languidly expose each breast.
Drunk girl wants to cut footloose;
The mundane knots now form a noose.

Sober girl doesn't have the time.
Sober girl is much too grown.
Sober girl is married to years,
Married to plans,
Married to age,
Married, married, married.

But staying sober
Is so hard to do
Yes, liquor is quicker,
But drinking's not the only way yo
Get drunk off of you.

When I see the tension creep into your shoulders
As you hunch over your keyboard,
A spring coiling, about to explode -
When I hear the expletives crashing on walls
From outside my door -
When I can no longer breathe
The caustic, charged air -
I have two choices:
(I will not - can not fight)
I can freeze,
Make myself small,
Become the doe
With eyes locked straightforward,
Glassy, removed...
Or
I can grab the headphones,
Change into running shoes,
Caress my lithe curves,
And feed my body to the sky,
As I fly.
When you refuse to take care of yourself -
I must be my own protector,
And this fierce goddess
Is beholden to no one.

Serotonin
Stepping out into the sun
(To capture and convert UVs),
The navigator leads the run
And takes the charge of "where-to-be".

Endorphins
Breathing hard, all discord numb!
A high like never felt before
Feels so much like the liquid hum
Of sharing two, or three, (or four?)

Oxytocin
Splitting sides, we barely gasp,
Dreams afire burst forth and rush,
Time and praise are gifts we clasp,
We shudder-skip when fingers brush.

Dopamine
Rewarding sights come to the tough
And forming memories is my art.
Just sharing heights is sweet enough,
But anticipation rules my heart.

This fire
That he inspires
Has lived a million lives and
Died a million deaths.

The narrative's reinvented each time,
My hands pass over it each time,
The flame changes form each time.

Spring and rebirth,
Help to give this gift meaning
And shape this light into
Something helpful,
Something healthy,
Something new.

Like a new leaf
Turned over,
And blooming in spring,
Some days
I'll grow
With the light.
But all new leaves
Require rain to grow,
So some days
Will pour
I know.
And when storms break
And I'm fighting
In the dark,
Feeling like I did
In the fall,
I'll shake,
Draw a breath,
Take a sip,
Find a spark,
And give thanks
That I'm growing
At all.

If it all ends in the summertime
I should like to lay under a massive tree.
I will be surrounded by love and music,
And slip away,
My final moments spent in warmth.
My favorite.
If it all ends in the fall
I should like to see Orion one last time.
I will be surrounded by smells and festivity,
And travel through the veil,
My final moments growing shorter,
Like the days.
If it all ends in the winter
I should like the mountains to take me.
I will be surrounded by shadows and myths,
And face the whipping, inevitable cold,
My final moments a reflection on all the springs I saw.
Perfect poetry.
If it all ends in the spring,
I should count myself lucky.
I will be surrounded by flowers and rabbits,
And I will rest easy,
My final moments spent in light,
Remembering. Passing. Cycling.
On to life anew.

I hear it before I see it -
A steady everywhere-roar.
A sleepy tumble
to slide the slats of blinds
confirms:
Turbulent and torrential
puddles seem to leap
ever-so-slightly skyward
with each wet wallop.
It is the determined,
slantwise
rain of change,
blustering with purpose,
washing winter woes.
I dress -
  pink galoshes
  pink slicker
  pink smile
To greet this
Gray April Shower

It is a strange moment -
a change in the wind, perhaps? -
a shift ever so slight
when I discover
that the next time your eyes drift skyward
and you brightly propose,
"It's nearly the season
for us to go stargazing!"
I will not wander through the valleys
of misplaced envy, grace, and doubt,
before laughing, sighing, and shrugging,
"Yes! We should! Well... Goodnight!"
That instead
I will send my eyes aloft
to meet those flecks of dreams and dew,
before laughing, sighing, and shrugging,
"Well... How about tonight?"

I struggle to hold myself up
(to a standard, to an ideal,
of self-care, self-respect,
and protection of heart)
But this is a slide
that I have no power over.
This force that pulls me -
(yes, this very idea has gravity)
- This force is unrelenting,
gnawing, sneaky, persistent,
not intentional or malicious,
simply inevitable.
It is a slow erosion
taking a mountain out to sea
when I look,
and a great landslide
swiftly collapsing
when I turn my back.
Where once,
I hung precariously,
I was at least secured
in a temporary equilibrium.
But now
just one cord snaps
and I am swinging,
falling,
a safety net not yet woven.

As Baudelaire said:
"Be always drunk,
on wine, poetry, virtue"
or what-have-you.
And after sobering
from aurelian dawns
and whiskey-drenched stars,
I find solace in tipsiness
on irreverent magic eyes
from the bottom of a margarita
or a paint-stained enigma
from behind a glass of red.
Slowly, carefully, languidly,
Quietly.
Flirting with possibilities
of being drunk once more.

If I'm being honest,
I press my lips to the glass
To follow you down.
I am a message in an opened bottle
But I keep pace
With your sips
Hoping our loose lips
Might, together, launch ships.

If I'm being honest,
I sip the nectar of intoxication
To make excuses.
I am sure of my sober thoughts
But I know
Under night's tender spell
Is where we might tell
All truth before morning's knell.

If I'm being honest,
I'm already one ahead
To calm my racing heart.
I have rehearsed this conversation alone
Hoping to finally break
Past the short ending
Through the faltering and shaking
To say the things we are longing.

If we're being honest,
We're getting toasted
Just to loiter.
We keep turning the hourglass over
Buying more time
With water in bars,
Playlists in parked cars,
And chilly walks under the stars.

Being with you
Means I don't have to imagine
What it would be like
And I can just be.
Being with you
Means I don't have to worry about
What you really think,
When to time my words,
Or if you'd kiss me.
I know that
You will tell me what you can,
My words can tumble without stopper,
And we won't touch.
My wild imagination must be tamed
Or it will plumb the deepest depths
And climb to treacherous precipices.
Being with you
Quiets this beast.
Being with you
Is always better, brighter, and steadier
Than I imagine.