though just a patchwork poem of different lines,
this sonnet shall begin my journal still.
it lacks in structure, not in rhythm or rhyme
and serve it's purpose i am sure it will.

"a journal?" you may say, and ask "what for?"
and i reply "i got bored on a plane"
my grandfather suggested that the lore
that university brings should be lain

within these pages, if i ever write
these out on paper which i may just do
once i return from durham and alight,
this metal bird that brings me there unto.

i don't recall how many lines to add,
though with this quad i think i shall be set
my future works will be more thought ahead,
and probably not from inside a jet.

all things considered, i quite like this poem,
and if my father asks, i'd surely show'im.

Cher journal,

Je n’ai point envie de te décrire ma journée périlleuse.
Tout ce que je ne veux, c’est t’écrire des vers inoubliables,
Que mon cœur, me dicte, éprit par la beauté de ce monde.
Car, tu es le mémoire, qui restera dans les mémoires.

black blanketed empty ice
i didnt want to bring it
i didnt feel the pull the push the desire the bone-burning fire
i think i might be losing what it meant what i felt what i dreamt
grieving on pine needle floors
"TO DECIDE"
is it even up to me anymore
"everything that i want
i now have to give up
because it seems appropriate"
(appropriating portions that you punctuate)
if abdication is required well then so be it
or at least that is the manner that i will depict
as i realize the extent to which i fluctuate

spotted in tears parallel to peers
for the impact is unimaginable
intangible ungrounded unfounded unmanageable

i stand in the back row, watching the casket sink lower
im never sure whos inside
whats divine when theres nothing alive
to what capacity will the constraining factor maintain
incapable, an electric field of rage, inescapable
a negatively charged invertebrate ablaze
as if i ever had a chance against the flames

yellow crosswalk indicators underneath my shoes
sillhouetted familiarity by the garden ledge
and instead, wiping away water, stopping for the view

six identical plates, twelve identical more
will i wont i, pushed aside
deciding that right now i will be fine
six identical breaks, twelve identical torn

this future does not carry over
perhaps it is that i will be declined denied reimagined revived
i will never be ready for anything old for anything new
not even clouds in windows in lines
i miss you i miss you i miss -
well
i miss what i used to think of you

but standing in that row
did you hear what i had whispered
a candle lit dinner in tandem to splinters
for some time
sitting alone at the table
inside of my mind
would i even if i was able
did you notice
did you falter
are you stable
the stone had a name like mine

there was a heron in the sky when i crossed the street this morning. ive never seen a heron so far from water, so far from home. i watched it gently, despite the people walking. i dont always break the unspoken in this manner, and although ive been more often lately, it still is not consistent, and so feels notable in this instance. of course there you were when you werent and lasting considerably though considering what is normal to me this was not notable.
but a heron was flying when i got off the bus today.

i felt as rested as ten with completed checks yet really i was running on a miracle three with more boxes than i could carry with my hurting wrist and hurting knees -

dear god,
will you hold me so softly with mercy in your palms,
will you tell me so delicately what you mean when you speak,
will you set me so lovingly to the floor when you must let me down,
for there will come the time for me to die.

at six fifty pm they turn off all the lights. and down the block sitting at the stop, at last a moment to catch up, and that is when i saw the second one that day.

dear heron,
will you fly again so starkly with your ever fervent beauty,
will you seek me out so blatantly though subtle as you have been guided,
will you return so frequently further, but not so much you disappear,
for i would love a heron to fly when my time has come to pass.

holding you feels like an inevitable. intangible yet legible. i dont check the clock when im waiting for the bus. it will arrive when it does and when it does i will get on it.

i saw two herons on tower street today.

Like soap, your poetry cleanses my soul.
On paper, I'm filthy from your touch,
and your honey is sticky on my fingers.
But, your words and your laugh are a spring
that douses me in bubbles and gold.
I sip from your tears and sweat,
and youth revitalizes my skin and bones.
You are an oil that enriches
and cannot be rinsed away with water.
You are the dirt that gets under by fingernails
and houses the seeds of a hundred flowers.

Night comes for us all.
We watch as color and saturation leak from the world
until just a half sphere peaks in the horizon.
When the sky touches down and up rises the moon,
it is only its reflective glow that we have to light our walks.

Night comes for us all.
Whereas stimuli and light override my senses,
the coolness and silence of night dampens them,
and with it, my thoughts race.
As my body relaxes against cool sheets,
my mind is buzzing,
and my heart tiptoes from one place to another.

Night comes for us all.
United but separate, our experiences are the same.
We look at the same moon and spy the same stars.
We linger on the same wishes,
and in the anonymity that darkness grants,
we dream and ponder and hope
that something hears us, sees us.
And in that dark anonymity of night,
that subtle weight we constantly carry grows,
and we are anchored to the Earth’s core.

Night comes for us all.
We wait for it to pass,
yet every day, we welcome it gladly
for rest or fresh eyes.
It is a gift and a gurney,
a calm and a casket.
Night is what we make it,
and night is what we need it to be.

scintillated leaves
a cold piano sits
separated lights glinting over black
organic liquid crystal
made of melted sleep
silk screen politics
upheaval and sink