all the answers to
my questions can
be found in my
old old poems
(or by
applying common-
sense tbh…)

how f#cked up
do we really are
that we can’t
see the obvious,
plain, and simple
truth
when it’s just
in front of us?!!?
sorry,
I meant inside* of us.

Summer fills me with nostalgia in a way that I cant explain. But when the air hears up and the black ants crawl all over our house I find myself remembering when we covered the window with sheets so we could sleep when it was still light.

Most years I was alone, friends not good enough to contact outside of school.
I stayed up late in bed reading every night. It was during summer that I stumbled on my first podcast, on my first ****** novel, on my first question of gender.
In the heat of summer I sought change. Alone, I struggled with questions of college and career and the future. I despaired, sobbing into my pillow until I fell asleep.

Summer is full of possibility, of the past, of the future.
I caught fireflies out on the lawn, I put cicada husks in a jar and kept a tally, I invented games for myself and my sisters. I work late nights and come home to a warm house. I eat cereal for 3 meals a day.
The rules don't apply to Summer.

I was lying on her leather couch
This kind of love is not allowed
Two thousand and twenty one
Time moves on but stigma doesn't
I'm falling in love with her leather couch
I'm getting lost in the creases that she has created
My hands smell like discovery
Her hair looks like purpose
I was lying on her leather couch
I think it's a place where I could be found

i've lost myself in another one's soul
i'm a carrot trapped in another soup’s bowl
now i must plan my literary escape
the forward momentum of an enlightened ape
uncover the furniture and pull back the drape
i live for myself not under one’s cape

may our work be fruitful and that of our own
with only your own eyes will light be shown
wander the desert with seeds to be sewn
but meet other travellers or ring them by phone
but never be lost in another one’s tone
or tomb

standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the edge of a dream in all directions

and it opens to you, and you let it in—womblike—everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime

it must be written above and left to fall as the wettest raindrop, tempting fate, and fate retaliated—again there was light, and again there was darkness, a new day

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
your soul might well come out to play
a more complex tune
which cries out for harmony
(perhaps for rhapsody)
and tries to wrap its finger
around your heart

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
my soul bears it's inner self to the elements
and in doing so finds a kernel
of my younger me
who plays and dances fresh steps
and treads lightly on our path
of aging

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
there's a slim and faint opportunity
to discover a you and a me
that hasn't yet found the North Star
or yet found our shared identity
our fresh scar and grasped
the nettle of the future
hand in stung hand

Once every blue moon
Twice each new moon
in the uncomfortable pause between songs
we dance on bruised feet
holding on for a fresh new beat
and refuse to let this new future pass.