February 9, 2014

I spend my whole life                                                                                             
     trying to read you

while simultaneously trying to make my face
     a page in a book
     you wrote

so you would come home every day just to dwell on the words on my mouth,
     spend so much time with them
     that one day you might run your fingers
     through the pages in my hair,
     cherish the personification of desire
     that you made

and be pleased.

Today you said you can’t read me

and I realized
that if you tried, you wouldn’t even find me in the footnotes
because its easy to get carried away with a red pen
and all the time in the world

I’m writing you this

and though the sleeve wearing my heart is paper-thin
I swore to myself I’d publish…

Today you said you can't read me

but I say
you can.

Please, tell me I'm not your average library novel
free me
word for word
weaken the stiffness of my spine
hold me 
run your fingers down my back

and make me your well-read favorite.

November 10, 2013


A toy.                                                                                   
it's a toy in your hands
and I feel the cold air rush over my body
as you sweep my heart to the side

You're a child.
and you've outgrown all the games
but people keep giving you toys

May 14, 2012


Southwest flight to Portland 
everyone with their backpacks 
olive green, Nalgenes, 
long hair, instruments in hand. 
In this state, 
I will find you here. 

"Play a song for us."

I remember piano keys
emanating from the red walls 
as I lay my head down to sleep, 
sweet, musical themes of my childhood. 

"Play it for us again, would you?"

Tell us a joke
when we're angry
give us a laugh 
when we cry.

Chipper spirit, kin
tell me about your dreams
tell me about the worlds you see in your mind 
the ones you create.

I remember beach hotels 
Years ago
Warm porridge in the morning
Golden syrup friendship
We didn't need any others. 
I remember sandcastles 
Hours and hours on masterpieces
and then the minutes spent scrambling 
when waves force us to work 
faster than we'd ever thought we could...
"Anything is possible," you'd say.

I remember real castles, 
walking walking walking
old stone remnants of the life lived,
Maybe they were a warning. 
We'd climb over the rocks 
find the walking sticks
And hike the hills
we'd never seen in Illinois;
these were our adventure stories.

You were prince of Egypt
and lakes
we'd part 
the red sea with our staffs,
Disney movie euphoria,
and happiness--singing all the while.

"Sing for us, would you?"

You were the leader.
Fellowship of the ring,
in our backyard woods
smacking down the nettles 
with our sticks,
Pioneers in a marshland
soon to be conquered
by the children of its owners. 

Conquer the world, my friend, 
and rule it well.

I remember the time in the subway 
in the city of France that glows
You were the charmer in the movies
joking with the locals.
I remember the top of the mountain we climbed, 
looking into other countries,
where you taught me to see 
without border lines in the way,
blocking my vision. 

Teach me to smile like you have
so many times,
show me how to play like you do…
and please, 
"Sing for us whenever you'd like,"
and dream with me 
like I know we always will.

Inspire us, dreamer,
and whatever you do, 
know that you 
are loved.

January 30, 2012

things start splitting at the seams now                                                              
things start splitting at the seams now

anything to make you smile

in my mind
you are
the ever-present love that remains like a ghost

I hold this book, looking, questioning, wondering
I believe
functional things,

but slow guitar sounds
remind me
I’m tumbling down
tumbling down

only to hold me together
only to act like I can.

control, ooh, the thing I know best.

do I really know me at all?
what suppression leaves me with
empty, quietness in tones I’ve never heard
not loud enough to wear hand-knitted perfection.

it’s a good thing your will exists...

stubbornness cowers now
thank god, it does.

January 19, 2012

Whitened pine needles                                                                                
Crisp air steaming in our noses 
Smiling hellos and goodbyes 
Like we never slipped 
Down this steep angled hill. 
Frigid waves, fingers shaking 
Looking up to face the sky 
Only when we remember at times 
How we've forgotten the warmth of the sun 
We absentmindedly ask for forgiveness 
and hope it comes before we reach the end 
Far off a sailors waltz calls 
Drunken adventures and worlds to see 
Oceans to master, maps to make, 
Pretty impulse romances to try... 
Yet this beckoning call 
Tells a heavy tale, 
Sadly howling in the nighttime storms... 
Still it pulls us away from the bitter reality 
That is home. 
This northwest wind 
closes proclaiming mouths 
so it hurts to smile 
and hushes precious shouts of joy 
It calls us names like Insanity, Naive 
and we forget how to remain in truth 
Returning from voyages to unknown, 
Sadness feeling like blanket chills 
Rocking shipwrecked wood--
and we say that is freedom? 
No escape changes anything, ever. 
It's living here that sometimes feels like slow monotonous breathing, 
and that will be all 
Until we find our love again, 
Which we won't 
We never do, 
We won't remember. 
Lucky truths define themselves 
Before our narrowed eyes 
Warmth finds us. 
We cannot search enough 
Try enough 
Read learn grow speak hear enough 
We're running numb 
So we can't feel enough to stop 
And the warmth finds us. 
That's how it comes, 
The sunlight peeks through these grey towers and white, 
and dawn is on my face 
Like I never knew 
and I remember 
The newness that means fire 
melting all the harsh 
and igniting all the good, 
Sparks on my tongue 
so powerfully sweet. 
We laugh heartily 
warmth returns to our lungs 
And ours is the steam that we see 
The vapor echoes of praising hearts, 
Glory in misfortune turned 
To a story of hide and seek 
freedom in fires lit by 
Helping hands 
Magical hands 
Miracle workers in our days 
Before we even knew to 
Think of remembering to look up.   

November 27, 2011

World of Hearing                                                             

There's something about the piano. 

Simple lyric-less expression into keys
Notes like post-its everywhere I turn my face
surrounding me
reminding me of a simple world,
Simplicity returning to a tired mind
Falling into lullabies...
There's something about the piano. 

Eerie weary tired sounds
Reverberating once and twice and again
Singing invitations
to slip inside a world 
where echoes softly play
and cover wounded hearts

A place where tears are old clothes
Worn and worn into wasted rags
But nobody cares because
     The norm is emotional. 
The regular passerby wave
 in somber contemplation
 lost in secret melodies,
  Dreams running free,
  Effortless imaginations. 

Carried here in my willing heart
I am moved
This resting place holds me
Gentle like a hammock swaying,
 back and forth,
Swaying this body 
 moving me,
 slowing my breath into trance-existence 
and singing the eyelids shut,
   Yes, there's 
    something about the piano. 

Something about the swift motion on ivory
sweeping melodies into my consciousness
Like I never had a choice
Those fingers, graceful and swift,
 somehow so ignorant
Perhaps intentionally oblivious to
 open hearts, real words, and Lyric.
The secret whispers of
Thoughtful silence in a mind 
  that weeps another tragedy,
Are heavy ringing for the world,
Yet shut in a closed room.

Dancing softer sounds
slow and come to an end
Honey tasting rhythms,
Haunting thousands of my years,
Bow and retire

  I emerge.

Sweet bliss is stolen 
And reality reminds me,
hits me like a frontal car collision.
Fluidity turns blunt like truth 
to innocent ignorance
and the careless swimming of my thoughts
ceases to yield a pleasant wonder.

In honest sadness I go
 And when I do
I want to take him with me
Where haunting never dares
To weigh down the hopeful heart
And eternity
Sweeps hopeful dreamers off their feet
And into so much more than sleep,
Sweet moments of new life
Reality sweeter, warmer, better than a hot mug
Bringing comfort 
On the wings of notes
 sung in creativity with a purpose
Knowing that no matter the task,
completed here now whenever,
Doing doing doing becomes 
rest in written freedom,
giving reasons to run and

A sweet newness awaits.
it will beget wisdom 
in the refining of learning
 because theorizing is dead 
  locked away with the keys 
   played forever and ever
in the 
arms of peace and
melodic enlightenment
we listen hear and know

it is finished.

November 3, 2011


if art isn't a product of contemplation 
i don't know what is

thoughts in the form of prayer
for comfort?
for beauty, for visual appreciation?

the simplest phrases
and its just a figment, fraction, piece of mind
produced by naive imagination?

perhaps it is a pining desire
for transformation
imagined self-improvement plans
conjured up in minds
upon seeing pages in a book

one book,
speaking wisdom into my heart
like a live thing
it is alive

believe there is.
hope for the upcoming.

i know anxiety like none other
mostly inside dedicated moments
where my perfection tries
and my reflection lies.

art is the somewhat-graceful
child of losing oneself into a loud state of 
that which is thinking...
and then
Revelation breaks through
and the easy silence
holding three parcels,
unconditional things,
brushes my thoughts in passing
and i am free.