It is when two lovers
Meet in the dark
And exchange kisses

It is when two children
Play without knowing each other
Just living in the moment

It is in the creation
Of a new song
By a rock and roll band

It is in the coming together
Of people in the streets
To protest their rights

It is in the baptism
Of a baby. Joining
The communion of saints

It is in the migration
Of birds to enjoy
The sun's warmth

It is when a father
Comes home from abroad
Bringing new gifts

It is in the death
Of a young man
And his mother's grief

Don't talk. Listen
To my heartbeat
Can you hear
My heart's metaphors?
I'm a poem who
Has lost his poeticity
I am a saint who
Has lost his saintliness
Will you still love
Me, after all of this?
Or will you
Throw me away?

Transform the climate
Of my thoughts
That my soul may become
A continent of pure metaphor
Of pure light
I want to be
Like the fish
Who swim in lakes
Not caring about
Poeticity
Away from the
Troubled currents

Do not doubt
My intentions
I only want to love you
To caress your body
Like Ursa Major
Like Saint Francis
With the beasts
May we never
Run out of metaphors
To dance to
So that you may see
Your skin blend into mine

If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of your childhood maths classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is the decapitation of innocent grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher, the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem

Going in multiple directions
is touted to be better than one;
it's better to have two hands than one,
a double rainbow is twice the taste.

My two ways are
the hard way or no way;
I'm a car that will speed
down the highway going 100mph
to a destination I've never heard of
with a turnout sign that hasn't been made.

I'm a stalled out car on a hill.
I'm a little beater car that should have
been lifted for spare pieces years ago,
but instead of caring for my parts
I've made myself die on a mountain
made out of molehills.

I can drive myself hard in either direction
both of them end up with me digging dirt.
One I'll bury all of my ideals,
and the other I'll dig up all the reasons
I never should have been driving in the first place.

you are my sun
but i know
you are rising
for someone else

I use metaphors
and you like
the awkward pause
My Dear
It would be
a lot better,
If you could see
all the signs
and let me read
all the unsaid words
between the lines...

The shower curtains gets stuck to my
leg as if it knows I need to feel a
comforting touch.
The kettle steams my glasses
and gifts my eyes a rest.
At night the fan whirrs and rotates
as if scanning the rooms for threats.

Living alone isn’t as lonely
as you might think.

My front yard has an empty
space. But, its gate, I assumed was well                                                             ­     

built, surviving the unrelenting Minnesota
frost, nothing is wrong with my fence, my upbringing,

I thought. Mom and Dad put the posts
down. Dad sacrificed hours in its landscaping

green, lush foliage all around, his creative
touch, passionate, instilling taste and inspiration

and, even if the fence was a little crooked,
because of the wine glass constantly in his hand,

its ok. But there was that empty space,
and aching with a dreamlike gaze

there I saw you,  come here.
you were a sunflower so sublime, I quickly

planted you. Young girls with
innocent hearts, stop to admire you

in my yard. Your charm, beaming. How
fast you grew! The nourishment

from an insecure heart like a
miracle grow. I knew, my yard would simply

be seasonal. Two months
and your bright petals fade into

nonexistence. Even after you
felt my hands pressing, settling you


In the soil. I thought. That I was your September
blossoming Aster, Venus’s Flower ,

The purple petals are fragile
I don’t grow like I’m supposed to

creeping so that you won’t see
me, going to class. watching you from afar.

Now, I am shoveling in the Texas heat, turning over
the soil, wanting your roots to go away.

The sun beating freckles
On my face.  Working so desperately

so my yard can transform, grow
into what I have always dreamed, love complete.

Where a butterfly gently graces my fence,
because this is where my miracles can happen.