Never fall in love with a poet


Never fall in love with a poet

Things     get    too     abstract

Often too

hard to understand

Things    get    too    meaningful

Things    get    too     rhythmic

Too      beautiful

You should know what to expect


There may yet be a plot twist

In verse

If you try

hard enough

To read between

The lines

And spaces.

Not enough


Not here

Not immediate


In vapor

In twilight

In theory


Written on the day of the Women’s March


Our democracy is a perpetual dystopia
we are the land of progress, never terminal:
a more perfect union.
We strive for more,
and every moment of our progression is inherently perfect,
it could always be more.

Sweet land of liberty,
full of the people who
risk their wellbeing and their livelihoods for the
opportunity to make ill-informed decisions for eachother
Willing to gamble their
reproductive rights
trusting the blind to lead the blind
The people who will risk it again and again
to see decades of
two steps forward, one step back

Loose Association


Loose association
pastel childhood
therapist’s office
At the whims
of hesitation—

scribbled adolescence
black and white prints only
slideshow sideshow
in memory’s prison with
maniacal enthusiasm.

Melting into an armchair existence,
toes cold,
old blanket,
errant thought

Trained for careful analysis,
deep critical thinking
wineglass candle light
and year-old playlists.

Cigarette-smoke oratory
unravels the mystery of
trauma repertoire,
and the mid-morning cabernet
of incessant worry—

Desire that is directionless
panicked searching
for a lost child
in the store

Yearning as strong as
just wanting some fucking sleep.
Feelings as wrong as
just trying to figure out my shit, leave me alone
Patient as long as
it takes to decipher this ink-blot adulthood.

Let’s Not Talk About It


Let’s not talk about it.

Let’s think about it all the time

and let us allude to it in circuitous ways–

Let’s imagine all the things it could be

Let us wonder what it is

Let’s contemplate its meaning

Let’s keep cool

Let’s keep our hands to ourselves

Let’s hide the suffering,

Let’s not break cover,

Let’s not ruin the surprise,

Let’s not talk about it.

To Andrew


We both lost our minds abroad.

We have the same maladies and
We both receive the same antidotes.

We find ourselves in the same impossible situations
We both heal ourselves through poetry.

We live by poetry
We both speak a language earned by artistic suffering.

We admire beauty and minutiae
We both abide by the imagination.

We sink to the same depths and
We both lift eachother back up.