I can’t write it. The lockdown of life. But, that seems unimportant compared to the taking. Knees on necks. Shotguns to abdomens. Teargas and crispen orange blazes– a clear quarantine that’s been lived in your street and communities and homes …
Tag: Poem
the dark parts
The rusty blood crust that waits in the corners. It’s always been there. Now with a sidecar of brave. You’re hunted on the street like an animal the same animal you came from. Different skin. There was …
Decades
I can’t quantify a year. Or ten. I can’t look back and say …this moment was best. Because every second that my feet find their way to the cold hardwood floor each morning is a second I want to breathe …
An ode to oatmeal
The purple bowl with the dopey-eyed lama flies through the air, landing face-down on the hardwood, oatmeal exploding from all sides like an eruption of sticky silt landing heavy in a circumference of at least twelve feet from the epicenter. …
Intergalactic
The stars spin around her room, like we are underwater, in a fishbowl in a house in a life of coming and going. The rain has started and the mornings are so dark, stars bleed into the hallway, on the …
Unknown person
Afterwards, I am a subtraction. On the periphery. Exterior. Pinched into thin concaving bows of salty smoke. I inhale, and blow out. Ballooned contouring at a distance. Alone, I am here. I can’t remember if it was by choice. …
A few poems
Yeah, still digging through life, you guys. Going back back back through the archives of old websites to find old poetry. Thought I’d post a few here––ones that won’t be getting a rewrite/revision/repurpose. These aren’t my best by any means, …
30 days of Instagram sobriety: a writer pontificates (and complains)
Oh, the gram. This is the first time since I joined the platform, back in the old days, that I have taken a very deliberate break: deleting the app from my phone and adhering to virtual platform silence for over …
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The pathway to a book: “Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest.”
–quote: Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic– Most writers, at some point — no matter what kind of writing they do — toy with the idea of writing a book. What “book” means to different writers, is of course different, but the …
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Le secret de la vie
There are still white shrouds, blue skies cannibalizing white puffs of cloud. A soundtrack on antique canvas. On the other side of the world, familiar brush strokes pink bells hang in the salmon sky Like tattered-heart blood, pumping. We are …
The summer cocktail of your dreams
“Here’s to alcohol, the rose-colored glasses of life.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald Usually, when the season changes, I’ll latch onto a cocktail for a few weeks. As summer has surely started to set in on Salt Lake City, I’ve been …
A Spanish Poem
We will be headed to Spain in just a few weeks, so I have found myself reading some Spanish poets to gear up. Federico Garcia Lorca was a poet I read often as an undergrad, but not much since. It …
