enjoy my work. i post what i write, what i see, and what it means to me. good or bad, comment away.


Discoveries in my kitchen at two a.m.

1. My family goes through hummus 
    like its candy. There is a Ziploc bag
    of fortune cookies in the pantry.
    Four different types of salsa
    in the refrigerator and no tortilla chips.
    I am the only member of my family who speaks
    another language efficiently.

2. There is a single dirty cat pawprint 
    on the floor. Only one.
    This makes the direction it faces arbitrary,
    though I cannot help but wonder
    what the single pawprint is made of.
    There is nothing this color on the counter,
    and the cats don’t go outside.
    Sometimes footprints are just 
    arbitrary. Sometimes dirt is 

3. There are more vitamins and
    supplements and additives in
    the pantry than food. My brother
    is the only family member who works out.
    My mother is a pseudo-vegetarian,
    my sister and I retired from this diet. 
    There is no need for so many pills.
    I don’t know who takes all 
    the vitamins. I just want the food.

4. Dark Mocha Almond granola bars do not
    sound appetizing at this time
    of night. I like all of these things.
    I even like them together. But I need
    something more filling. Late night cravings
    should be fully sated for fear
    of returning in the form of crazy dreams
    or werewolf transformations. I read
    an article where a twenty-six-year-old
    woman didn’t understand why three men
    backed out of marrying her;
    she also has Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder
    and goes self-admittedly bat-shit-crazy
    for five days a month. She likens herself
    unto a werewolf. I don’t want this.
    I need something more satisfying
    than a granola bar.

5. I cannot decide between thin-sliced honey
    turkey and an apple. My mother
    is sleeping in her bedroom which
    is off of the living room which
    is off of the kitchen in which
    I am making more noise
    than I should be at this hour.
    My father is on a mission trip.
    I know she misses him. She should
    sleep. Apples crunch too loud.
    My mother picks good apples.
    I choose the turkey.


Sometimes angels are made by mistake

She giggles as much when she's happy
as she does when she's nervous.
It's hard for me to tell
the difference between the two
Sometimes it's harder for her

Her smile doesn't easily mask her ageless insecurities
mapped out on teenage arms
Some call her broken.
Label her as stained and unforgiven
Unforgivable, even

Odd how Lucifer was once an angel of light, and
though she never thought herself equal to God,
sometimes she still tries to see His face
between calling out His name in vain and taking him in pill form
A pharmaceutical communion, fingering her pills
like rosary beads
Say ten "Hail Mary's"
Take five Mollies
Cry out one loud "Our Father"

Maybe it's all the same to her
It's hard to make a distinction between heaven
and hell when you live both simultaneously,
had to save yourself from a freefall
when your angels are falling with you
Her parents,
upon learning of their 15-year-old
daughter's meth addiction,
decided to make it a family affair
All three of them spent
the next 18 months forgetting
how to be a family
by shooting up together

Three years later,
having missed too much school to
graduate on time,
she's not sure whether finishing is
even worth it.
But she's finally learning
to feel
to breathe deeply
to heal slowly
Her mouth crinkles when she smile
Her eyes, heavy with sleep,
cannot close without the voice
of a stranger chasing nightmares
from her head
Like so many wolves in sheep's clothing
she is faithful to both her
faith in God and her
lack thereof in man.

And his heart,
the one holding the light at the end of the tunnel
So quickly she strides towards it
Anxious for salvation
Expectant on its extinction
Keep walking
He may be the one to
save you

...or he may not be, but remember
Faith is defined as belief in
something not yet seen and
Faith in something is better
than feeling helpless
So keep believing
in whatever it is that
holds you up.

Salvation will come.

You are all Atlas

Old hirsute wizened weathered troubled man
I see you.
Not just your face but the stories it tells
Through crooked grin
It’s in hallowed eyes
Begging to be remembered
History places too many in the background

This is for you, man
For the man who tasted sweat on his lips and knew
This was the taste of life
Who discovered that sweat and tears taste the same;
Sweat, tears and blood flavor the soil
Something palpable and human and ancient.
The man who carved history from the back of the earth
Hands calloused, marred like the ground
These are the hands of Man,
The marks of Man, the pride of Man,
Grizzled specimen of survival and struggle and selflessness
I will remember you

I will call you uncle, brother, cousin, friend
Hold your head high you
Appalachian champion, you
Southern gentlemen, you
Dust bowl denizen, you
Patroller of the Pacific Northwest
You are a history of perseverance and failure
And perseverance and success.
Building block of a
Solid sort

You are Whitman,
Your words bring earth to page to life
You are Sooner, you are Settler, you are epitome.
You are my Uncle, 30 years of days
in dark earth belly.
You are my father, putting
God and family before himself
You are me
And my father, and my grandfather,
And his father
You are us.
Thank you for carrying us
You carry us so well.

sunlight on mirrors

There are times when even though my window has been closed for days and no apparent natural light has come into my room[natural meaning of nature and into meaning a metaphorical entrance through tempered glass], I still feel as though it snakes its way throughmyblinds ontomybed acrossmyfloor hitting my face, reflecting off my old mirror [my mirror being the one I purchased and not made so as to see myself allegedly] and this sunlight, this uninvited, precocious, intergalactic traveler[intergalactic being the expanse though which it journeys and traveler being one who travels for that sake alone]; this invades my room without regard to my present state and expects me to just accept its presence, much like that of air or sneezing or losing one sock, something expectantly inevitable, while maybejustmaybe I had something better to do than cheer up and breathe and smile and enjoy life and warmth and be satisfied.


Having you was privilege.
Needing you was breathing.
Losing you was…

Having you was needing you was losing you was
Spinning the cylinder was
Open and taste…was
Chasing you was like playing
Russian roulette with a gun where
Someone had loaded the rest of the chambers when
I wasn’t looking; when
It came to be my turn to
Bite the bullet
I bit hard and it
Bit back harder, shattering my
Smitten smile into
Cavity-laden snowflakes so convincing,
The neighborhood children grabbed their
Snowsuits and toboggans for playtime in my wake.
Their parents blame me for
Leading their children astray
With false promises of recreation because
Today’s children may not be taken in by
Artificiality but they’re
Far too accepting of it.

And I’ve grown weary of gumming
Everything I put my mouth to so
I’m cutting new teeth on my only
Photo of you, gnawing at the edges until they’re
So tattered it seems as though
Someone has ripped you from reality;
The reality is my reality is altered
In your absence and
While my teeth have grown back in,
While I am able to chew and swallow again,
Things still don’t quite taste right.
And that gun is sitting on the nightstand,
Hammer cocked; and the fear that someone
Has loaded the rest of the chambers again is
Starting to wear off; it just looks
So damn appetizing.

But I’ve yet to determine if these
Pangs in my stomach are
truly of hunger or
just a fear of not finding
something of substance to
sate these primal tempests
in my gullet the way that
you did.

So I’ll continue my teething
Like privilege
Like breathing
Like nothing has changed
Like we’re both still the same
Like that gun isn’t taunting me
Like the chambers are empty
Like tomorrow will be different
Like Youth is asking its parents to show them what real is
Like real still is
Like real life tastes nothing of gunmetal

And I smile again
A big toothy grin
White as snowflakes
And you’re bitter as I walk away.

Chill out, lady

and I said to her
I hear you, but
your cookie-cutter
flower petal
tone is quite
deafening to the ear
Your message
lost among the static of
bumble bee
runway landings; oh
can't you ever make
a statement without
epiphany and
expectation of

the oceans we knew and the jewelry we have

We saw it coming
from far off
We were aware of
this wave from nowhere
We did nothing to stop it
And don’t you think for a
moment that I didn’t want to
I was patiently waiting for
your cue
It never came

Breaking slowly over us
the tide of our own remorse
We drank it in greedily
Mouths opened wide like
Young fledglings we were
We were not ready for this life
These duties

should have turned in our badges
At the first sign of trouble
But we held them like
Easy and fulfilling are not
Hardness like fire-scorched
Steel or diamonds –
Herein lies fulfillment

Yet we settled for nickel and
dime store mood rings
As though we could compass our way
through life based
on the color of a stone
on our right middle fingers

When you rely on body heat
to make your most important decisions
Your answers become arbitrary
and mood rings are unreliable when
you’re already
dead inside anyway
Think about it

And next time you wash
the remnants of the day
from your hands, try to
leave the little green circle
around your right middle finger
It’s all we have left

Don't move, be still

Don't move, be still
pussy cat. Your
whiskers are giving away
your position in the windblown.
We see you there.

Try not to breathe too loudly. You'll
disturb the monster. She's
never pleasant when
she's awakened without
just cause. I know

because I've done it before.
See my scar? A reminder of
past mistakes isn't a preventer of
new ones in and of itself, so
hush. Be still. Lie.