delicate

tiny atoms intertwine
spindly creatures

exploring the feeling of fingertips
the spark, the shock

eyelids and eyelashes
individual bits
coated with flake of snow

one slow blink
and the world spins

stolen moments
when reality is in memory
when life teems in being

precarious

teetering on the very edge
between light and dark

the sharpness lingers

because for each of these
millions of moments pass
in the mundane

carved out
cradled deep, deep

sunlight blazes across snowfall
cold settles deep inside
beneath the layers of socks and sweaters

fragile

Flawed

I won't, I won't try to rearrange you
I won't even try to change you
I want you the way you are

I'll take all of your old silly habits
That's the only way I'll have it
I want you the way you are

I will even forgive how you voted
And then the way that you gloated
I'll take you the way you are

I'll accept all your horrible grammar
I know grammar doesn't matter
I'll take you the way you are

I won't ask you about your big secret
because I know that you'll keep it
I want you the way you are

I won't think of the way that you whisper
I won't think of how you kissed her
I'll take you the way you are

I want a flawed and unreasonable person
That's not really even worse than
Living alone like I am

I know I have made far enough mistakes
To cause you your own grief and heartache
Please take me the way that I am

I want you to accept all my failings
To help me with my rearranging
To take me the way that I am

I won't, I won't try to rearrange you
I won't even try to change you
I want you the way you are

If

I wonder
if someday
in a little house
on the corner
leafy vegetables out back
in past the kitchen curtains

I'm going to live
reading morning newspapers
tackling crossword puzzles
over coffee
brewed to wake us up

playing piano every morning
as soon as the sun hits the keys
asking you what you think
gladly stopping when you come
whispering your input in my ear

clocks on the wall
rows of shoes in the closet
yours and mine
pots of all shapes and colors
filling up the salt and pepper on Tuesdays
worn slippers

I wonder
if there will be nights
we'll go outside
and talk about nothing at all
stars caressing our cheeks
hands intertwined

I'll be pleased
with walls we've painted ourselves
art in the kitchen
shelves flooded with books
your favorite authors
and mine

november

the curled leaves were clinging,
precariously clutching on and shivering
i understood how they felt

backs braced against the wind
deep muscle tightening tension

november makes you feel alone,
strapping on scarves and mittens
bundling deeper and deeper within
yourself

the gray sky looked like a painted backdrop
lowered down to set the scene

bleakness

leaves scattered across the sidewalk
aimless

still without the resilience of december
still hoping for some sunlight to peak through
hopes in the crippled edges of fading foliage

at night the skies offer little comfort
clouded over and unsure

deep cello-resounding chords whisper underneath
i can feel the earth sigh under the weight
waiting

Chasing dreams

I'll be thinking of you when I'm heading
west
propping my feet up at every coffee shop
Sitting up front
performing for a crowd on a caffeine buzz
Closing my eyes
inhaling the fragrance of stale morning pastries and hazelnut
it'll be you I see
Chords trembling through my fingertips
your name on my lips
tempered by a smooth mix of breakfast blend and sugar
playing memories
I close down the house every night after night
doors locking
My feet continue towards the car with threadbare tires
ignition
And I wish you were int he passenger seat with me

Gilding

Giving in to the expressive statements
of the Word.

Over the chaos of the deep
magnificent
spewing forth unimaginable.

Digging deeper into the earth
swallowing the soil
breathing damp dirt
standing on the feet of dancing mountains.

These hills are the bubbling
the straining of the stream of life
the water that will save you from thirst.

It is good.

The vine is creeping over all of us
we are tiny timid leaves unfurling
drawing deep drafts up from the roots.

The revelation of a sunset engulfing
the last remaining breaths from the sunrise
letting youthful naivety run rampant
skirting across the sky.

cameras

a cheap boxed gift
pre-packaged in shiny primary colors of childhood
containing a plastic black camera
and a book on "how-to"
so thrilled to match up scenes from real life
with staged book examples
size 12 shoes
racing around my backyard
trying to capture trick shots
and action
sunlight streaming through the lens
fingers twisting an empty camera
waiting to get prints back
lines of negatives

another camera
a hand-me-down
long black
kodak
and film that can't be bought in stores
it took my favorite snapshot
autumn and maple leaves
three colors
red, green, and orange
loosely hanging from my climbing tree
hands and feet winding up
scurrying up
scuffed elbows and glasses that slide down my nose
the camera anchored by the wrist strap
a moment saved
developed on 4x3

today
still crunching through leaves
eying up climbing tress
a new camera in my pocket

A call for action

I'm going to rally against the street people,
the ones who take a buzz saw
to towering (if leaning) trees.

A limb for a limb, I'd say.

Fighting
against parking tickets
against strict assignments
against those trying to take me out of the pulpit.

I'm going to wave beauty in your face.

Yellow octaves,
and trash that just might be art.

I'm going to drag you into deep alleys,
and show you the pristine magic of streetlights.
Curves and shades.

The power that's in a single, trembling leaf.
How life draining from something can make it seem alive.

Life in tension.

Can't you hear the music?
Flooding through your headphones, your speakers,
the floor,
your skin.

The music might not be a march, but it's marching.
It's a tango.
It's a waltz.
It's a foxtrot.

Each step sending shivers from toes to nose,
Pulling you in.

Raising high a sign,
Protesting the rights of all, the trees.

Praying for deliverance,
in the midst of dancing and tyranny
from those street people.

creek

old bleach containers
mobile homes
for tiny crayfish

we creep along the water's edge
peering under the reflections of sunlight
poised to snatch

creatures from mud

sonatas

four hands
and Beethoven

first we played on the piano in the basement
the musty vent directly overhead
a piano that should play on its own

it didn't seem so bad
laughter muffled the out-of-tune octaves

the sound traveled up the stairs
throughout the house
notes strung together

hands weaving in and out

Chores

I'm taking laundry out
Stuffing it in a garbage bag
Warmth all bundled together

Absentmindedly pulling apart lint
Already dragging my clothes and myself
Down the hall

Warm jeans
Folded into drawers
The blinds are half-closed

Pulling the closet open
A steady accumulation of dresses
To match the ever-increasing row of heels

The stacks of books in the corner
Need no sweaters
Clean pages, ready to be underlined

Wandering back up the hall
Abandoning my true loves
For a box of forgotten dryer sheets

Time, and the freedom from it.

I.
I can schedule you during this point in the day
From A to B.
That's it.

No more, no less.
I regret to inform you, that I must decline.

Isn't this how it feels?
Tiny little entrapments.

Even the blank spaces have lines running through them
Dividing and subdividing.

If it's empty, I must put something in it.

II.
More than things, and spaces
Abstract, meaningless(ful)

Moments instead of seconds.
Sighs too deep for words can't be categorized,
Deadlines don't actually mean death.

Maybe it's climbing trees,
or the sunlight sneakily poking through.
Taking a break, and really meaning it.

Yes, really meaning it.
Not thinking of what's next.

Which makes accomplishment satisfaction,
Instead of a check mark.
Because these are the moments I'm good at,

The words I can put together.
The experiences I can share.

It has something to do with friendship.
You can't fit that in a calendar square.

library

once
an afternoon in the library
(something feels at home in the library)
blinds drawn down
twisted open
to let in the travels of the sun
trees rustling anxiously outside
I sit in blocky furniture
so library
garish oranges and bright yellows
at least like the libraries
back home
trapped in a faded decade
books trapping the same past
deep within the binding
carefully selected
and stacked in the
corner of my cubicle
paging through academic magazines
that I read over the summer for fun
still now
I can't shake that feeling
this shouldn't be learning
and research
opening pages
this feels like
visiting an old friend or
returning home
to find mom has put the kettle on
for a mug of hot chocolate
the deep rooted feeling
of leaves falling
a blanket
and a good book

meat for a month

like the Israelites
I like to complain
and weep nostalgia over cucumbers

ignoring the steadfastness
of the One who loves me most

sitting in a desert of banality
bland and beige
dreaming with my fingertips
the ragged leaves of a cucumber plant

ignoring the manna
scattered abundantly, ready to rot

like Moses
I shout to the Almighty
what do you want me to do?

carnivores all around

on missing hymns and home churches

fans beating the air
stifled, summer breezes
underneath peaked ceilings
lofted to point to God
outdated red hymnals line the pews

sitting up front
pages of music blow shut
and the message goes on
preach it, brother
until the almighty two-syllable amen
reverberating off orange carpet
and stained glass
amen and amen
a cue
to move forward
hymns and people let loose
doutbing people to a doubting world

wandering

crashing through the night
air compressing and expanding
right outside the window
rolled down

powerfully close to the edge

red lights waving nonchalantly
exiting highways
fanning out

thumbs locked on the wheel
thinly in control
inches away from metal on metal

wind explains away
eyes wide open

headlights on low beam
rectangles of white flip past
one, two, three

the skies empty up
space for vehicles
pulsing across the countryside

Barcelona

meet me in Barcelona
on the balconey
plants, greenery
spilling down the iron railing
look for the bright red flower

meet me in the sunlight
white latticed chairs
tall glasses
with bright yellow lemons on the rim
refreshed

meet me in that place
where you can translate
what blue skies mean
in foreign lands
laundry fluttering in the clouds

Together we fill gaps.

Remember that time
we watched all the Rocky movies?

"Yo Adrian."

I was spread out
on your living room floor.
The carpet making impressions on my skin.

Surrounded by outdated knick-knacks,
you the youngest in the family.

I pretended like I was asleep.
Wondering what you would do.

Eyes shut, ears open.

Knowing that you would have to wake me,
to drive me home.
My favorite part of the night.

Driving home
on the road my grandma lives on.

Dreaming of meat lockers
and holding hands,
my feet propped on your dashboard.

swensons

greasy food
eaten far too late at night

purple
grape milkshake
tops off the evening meal

it's like old times
i only met you recently,
but it seems like years before.

crammed
side by side in the backseat
no room for elbows
except in ribcages

exhilarated
getting caught would be bad
very bad
and for the price of a double cheeseburger
all the way

songs and places

old songs play on repeat,
bluegrass lyrics and hazy days of sunlight
eyes close; crafting a scene
painting it out, stroke by stroke

stretching across the canvas
to fill in the hillside
corn stalks emerge
timidly, forcefully.

light courses
tumbling down, and down
racing to illuminate

green
blue, and golden. deep, dark earthy browns.
and more green.
always green.

pushed into the corner
a promise of night
wide open fields
and stars that crease the sky.
filling empty spaces.

eyes open.
confused, misplaced.
roads pave the way
full of cracks and sticky black tar.

restless.

sleepless.

feeling nostalgic for the sunlight,
the way it catches any object ablaze.
making normal,
extraordinary.

unsteady with the night,
space pushing infinity

too much space.

looking for a chance
to go west,
to cup the ocean between my hands.
letting it trickle through.

deep blazes of sunlight
breaking across the water.
a breeze,
holding me upright.

back east,
the night grows larger.
looming and vast.

falling asleep on couches

falling asleep on couches
comfortable enough to never leave

eyes kept closed by a new hat pulled down to the brim
green flannel is my blanket

dreaming of places to travel to
and places I've come from

dreaming to stay put
wanting to let that be

cooled by a swirling fan overhead
lulled by the sound of a familiar tv

travels

no seat belts
only helmets
locking not the body
but the mind inside
to wander
thoughts of leaping off
to join the sky
cresting over the tallest asphalt peak
careening down curves
the landscape expresses itself
in deep shadows of greens
whispering
echoes through the roar of the wind
beckoning
to keep going
to abandon the helmet
releasing the culmination
of nineteen years
shamelessly into the world

a ride

wildflowers
inhaling the exhaust on the side of the road
coughing out beautiful blooms
for the passerby

crowding around a ragged trunk
pushing out the side of a hill
grasping
with thick deep roots

tiny pebbles lay prostrate
cowering under the guardrails
bowing beneath the weight
of the life teeming
surreptitiously sprouting
their own small gardens of weeds

the open sky breathes down
causing ripples on the land
deep valleys
cupping the sunlight

reflecting back onto already sun-soaked golden corn
waving idly
gazing nonchalantly at the wilderness
and uncontrollable
growths of color

still forming miniature skylines
tall white observation decks
and squat purple buildings
skyscraper stalks in between

What summer feels like.

The crowd at Rita's has changed, once again.
I still go to pick up my gelati
(not quite gelato)
Amazed to see the immaturity of the current crowd.
The chunks of real cherries in a pond of cherry flavor.

Although, I suppose the last time I was there,
we salsa danced.
Public disruption in our own right.
Old friend, old times.

It's like these chairs,
how I sat in the same one last year,
Summertime. This time of year.

I was waiting for you to come say goodbye
before you left the country.
We sat, chatted.
I thought we had the world ahead of us.

Pennsylvania lit up the night
first, with lightning bugs
Fireflies, then a proud array of stars.

The next night I did more of the same
reading 17 magazine and painting my nails.
The brightest color I could find.

I can hear my family playing badminton in the front yard now.
As always, it's chaos.
Why is my brother so tall?
Our numbers never stay stable anymore.

Life feels so comfortable
worn like a familiar sweater.
Waiting for the company of friends to go for gelato.

abandonment and recollection.

racing
tying up laces
and letting go

looking for the highest hill
the spark
the evening breath of sunlight
cresting, just ahead

air moves in, and out

rewind--fast forward

all the miles spent traveling
moments together
a glimpse, pulling backwards

older memories speed forward
each pound of the foot
draws them in, and out

spinning at the top of the hill
yelling, screaming, shouting
tiny pricks of grass, flattened

sprinting back down again

weeds

tiny sprouts
crowding my cucumbers
a poor decrepit species on the end
aged edges

i have no problem crooning
power ballads, love songs
anything to coax them along

feeling guilty that this plant
appears to be less loved
evidenced by the wilted stem

the rowdy tomatoes are becoming unruly
testing the boundaries
tiny yellow flowers

weeding, i pry secrets out of the earth
places of growth, flood and drought
asking the beets for forgiveness
for not giving them the love they deserve.

i just like cucumbers better.

opened

filled; from the inside and outside
broken from the ribcage
split at the seams
searing free

books that make me cry

words taper around the edges
of yellow-
green leaves glinting
in the sunlight
under underdeveloped apples
on the blankets
of afternoon
and leisure
stories slipping by
into the crevices of
grass, patchwork shaded
kaleiding
glazing onto ripened
hair and fingernails
moments of being alive
but mostly living

Inbox.

Your name has always been at the bottom of my inbox,
popping up again, and again, and again.

Deleted messages, important and not.
Notifications.
Altercations.
Vacations from face to face contact.

I leave your name there,
to reassure me that life is real.

How could I move you to the trash?

Or maybe, I just like the little flutter my heart makes,
when I read your name.

incomplete, tomorrows

entering
the dew sounds like bells
clear dawns

dreaming of
red pickup trucks
empty roads
sneakers fly for miles

soundtracks spin
gamboling guitars

packing
suitcases full of possibilities
as new as a bride's dress

carelessly
feet proceed
over cliffs

oceanscent

the beach isn't a place, it's a smell
spf clouding the air
hovering like a haze
mingled with the aroma of heated skin
at its most basic
unpolluted by human grease
sea spray
salt, not chlorine
drifting out onto land

Corner Windows

Frailties
Caught between corner windows
Voyeuristically peering through
Transient.

Buildings, stoic and reassuring
Built to last
Reduced to their earth bound status
Glass.

Eyes see straight through
Between human irrelevancies
Ahead to crumbled tomorrows
Excessive.

Blue sky
Doesn’t knock
Travels in through the front door
And out the back.

charming

easily rocking
patches collage and collide
displaying shadows from the hammock above
abandoned in favor of cool, dark grass.

casually, leisurely
words strolling by on the page
lives and relationships
created and illuminated
by mid-afternoon sunlight

interrupted by easy footsteps
blocking the sun
and laying down a bowl of strawberries.

reaching into the pale blue bowl
expansion of flavor
red stories made sweeter
by the kindness of a charming young man
delight in good fruit

Each.

Knowing life would change,
the dew
slowly, bitterly appeared on the grass.

Each drop, to each blade.

Each clinging like I did to the symphony in my ears,
filtered through the latest album.

Weeds, without notice, rampant in their enthusiasm,
sprouted.
Leaped out.

Forming shadow jungles for my pleasure,
in the dusk.

Imagination to spark imagination,
shimmering with tomorrows
each an unknown.

While I watched, while I stared,
each evening faded.

Breathing in the absence of anything else to do
inhaling words

Waiting.

each day, each hour

breathing ripples across my back
arching

dormant, unaware

outside
branches defiantly wave at the miserable wind
gleams of daylight remain
resting on the tired grass

tensing smaller and smaller
one point

restless, fearful

boxes lay in disarray
without homes
no order remains

fitfully fingering the air
cooled blue

Moments

Precarious.

Walking parallel to the sidewalk,
missing the bumps, cracks
Sharp winds.
Hands forced deep inside of
unlined pockets.

Eyes closed.
Into traffic.

One moment, one instant.
I see you. And you're gone.
A vibrant display of the fragility of life.

I watch you retreat, wondering.
What would it take?

Each crack,
a spindly earthquake story.
Small forests,
populating the canyons.

an afternoon

one.

mildly ruffling
each limb
a curving masterpiece

brightened by the late afternoon sun

needles feathering downward

behind
a window waits
bordered by brick

rectangle panes

two.

shadows creep
the crevices of bark
darkened

sinster greens speak

three.

one last streak of light
splays across the scene

trunks bared

Circus Life

I want to sing,
but I have no tune.

Deep down,
there's a diva.

I reach out,
trying to fly
alongside your trapeze.

Straining for your fingertips.

The big top swirls,
the animals roar.

Beastly lions,
and courageous tigers.

I stand in for the ringmaster,
who is working the popcorn stand.

Feeling inadequate,
as I look around.

Everyone performs,
ingenious acts.

I only observe,
but I want to sing.

This tuxedo is large,
too large.

Chaos reigns in this circus life.

lights

bits of glass
remnants of small bulbs
lying hollowed

empty sockets

half goes black

strands stringing endlessly
with and without purpose
leaving claim to the fragility
and purpose of each individual

one misplaced word

half goes black

Solid Ground

I.
I was in love once.
Kind of.

It was more of a movie love, you know?
My heart raced whenever I sat next to him.
I thought our characteristics equated mate puzzle pieces.

But I really knew because my heart broke when he went away.

And then, I realized,
There was no lasting power,
And no mutual agreement.

Making my "love" anything but.

Leaving me to match phrases in books to something...
that may not have even mattered.

II.
Something real, something tangible.
As worthwhile as sand trickling and lodging on the webs of my fingers.
Romantically, our eyes meet lovingly.

But I really know we're more of a giggling sort.
And that didn't really happen.

Scratch that, start again.
I want a few years back to build a wall.
Of bricks.

This is what I think real is,
But maybe I should plant a tree.

outdoors

thick and ragged
extending to the sky
coated with the still clumping
spindly
snow
leaving shadows on the lower branches

perched above
watching the giggling glimpse
of a bright green coat
trouncing around the trunk

tracks down the road
barely visible
each minute bringing a fresh layer
covering