Most of the time, I do not know.

Sometimes it rains quietly
in my ears and I
cannot say it properly.

It is like putting string
to the neck and fogging
mirrors. Lots of mirrors.

It is like waiting for
the arrow to hit.
Only that it keeps on coming
and the distance steadily grows
until I die from trepidation
alone.

sunset

we are five minutes late
to the setting sun.

now all that is left of the burning sphere
are faded lines of magenta
and the rest is dark.

five minute ago we were
occupied by each other's breath

but now we sit and twine our hands
and realized we have found
the stars.

Birthday poem: to my mom.

With each year that passes, I hope
You feel the fortune of your age;
Celebrate what you have gained
And let go what you have lost.

Say that you have loved and
Know that you are loved by
So many around you;

That you have touched
The lives of others as they
Have touched yours.

Say that this year is to celebrate
All the experiences and wisdom you have
Collected within your years.

And so here’s to another year
Of learning and living and loving
To the fullest.

I love wrecks.

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
Until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.

"Scheherazade" by Richard Siken, taken from Crush (2004)

..........................................................................................................................................................................

I read and fall hard for these.
Wrecks to me are like drugs I could get addicted to without ever getting arrested.

Quoting beauty

tell me that there is a place in this here and now, this year and century, this wide fucking world,

for visionaries who have cocktail tea parties on balconies. for scholars and raconteurs

who make each other dizzy with debate and live atop ever-growing piles of literature.

for poets who seclude themselves for countless hours at a time to mull over a single sentence.

for gypsies and road warriors who sleep only when their bodies collapse in exhaustion, but never defeat.



for vagabonds who indulge in behaviors that cut ten years off their lifespans

and add ten paragraphs to their life stories.

-Anonymous

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I have always recognized beauty in grief