the autopsy will find —
coloured flowers in my grey matter
still-beating poetry in my heart
unspent ink in every organ
blood saturated with love
bones mineral’d by life’s rough days
muscles fiber’d by courage and fear intertwined
and a slightly crushed but glittering soul
-all posts-
♯lifegoals
“I really would like to stop working forever — never work again, never do anything like the kind of work I’m doing now — and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends… Just a literary and quiet
—Allen Ginsberg (1926–1997)
Audio books
“I just don’t get how you can listen to a book. There’s no fonts to look at, there’s no papers to touch — they’ve removed two of the senses. And the truth is, sometimes I lick them, so that’s three.”
—Brick Heck, The Middle, “Pitch Imperfect,” 2017, written by
Pressed flowers are still pretty
Age is a gradual steamrolling of youth.
Tempus insaniam
Please someone tell me—
am I actually demented,
or just well-fermented?
Fragmental
all my poems are starts
they begin but never end
yet do they abandon me
or do i abandon them?
Chilly bedtime thoughts
Winter is the slow-down
Winter is the search for self
Winter gives the silence we need to listen
Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors
Rejoice, lament, meander
black eyes and broken bones
rainbows and sugared donuts
overthinking and over-loving
have gotten me to this point
and still I’ve never yet made
a five-year freaking plan —
and even if I did — nothing
ever actually goes
according
to
plan
anyway
Morning lover
I don’t party at night with alcohol. I party hard in the morning with coffee and oatmeal.
Spiraling
midlife changes curled-up
forties are fiddlehead ferns
it doesn’t look like much
until it becomes unfurled
and once we get it open
things may break apart —
eventually nests unwind
but will we bear fortitude
to turn that new life into
something just as beautiful
and yet even more free
spiraling towards fifty?
Vein
i bleed words,
ink drops, and
poetry merges —
blackish-crimson
autobiography
Monsoon love
for the harsh heat wave
wet apologetic gift
from clouds to tree roots
A million invisible nothings
Sometimes I get overwhelmed by nothing.