I am for an Art with the smell of Spanish food that bleeds into busy streets.
I am for an Art with earth tones that blend into the outside world.
I am for an Art that allows the cat to scratch at and ultimately destroy.
I am for an Art that tucks me in at night only to wake up me at 1:00am.
I am for an Art whose lines repeat and roll into infinity.
I am for an Art that is found in hot garbage.
I am for an Art that is drifting through the subway train wind.
I am for an Art that is floating through a creek in the mountains.
I am for an Art at the bottom of an empty mug.
I am for an Art that’s in the desert land, in-between the suburbs and the city.
I am for an Art that is asking a question in response.
I am for an Art that doesn’t call for attention.
I am for an Art that doesn’t shave.
I am for an Art that cuts it’s own hair.
I am for an Art with thin, frail black lines, and vines all around it.
I am for an Art that one must eat cranberries and sip red wine to.
I am for an Art that is always on the verge of breaking.
I am for an Art that is burning, fueling the fire of something bigger.
I am for an Art that takes a century to create.
I am for an Art that is hard to look at directly without crying.

 

Autumn Preservation

My tie to you
is loose
but I am
full and
illuminated

hold me up
with open
wide arms

as I shine

lighting the path
out of these
woods
for you to untangle
the vines

back in
this forever summer
you remind this
town of autumn

the
smell of dirt
decaying leaves
and cranberries

reminds them
of the earth
under this
white sheet

falling and floating
we land
together

light shaping

It’s been a hard
focused
14 hours of intermittent
crying

and
passing miles upon miles of
very summer
ripe
green and lush
trees and road

a chest
and toothy grin
memory glimpse
sparks
an
incurable hunger

pulling it with
all of my strength
from the universe

but, it’s still
just me and the
backpack
passing through a place
with windows
new light
and view of the garden

City summer

In a black and white scene
friends find each other

precisely at 2pm
on a Sunday

when the breeze
coming through
a crack in the window
provokes a pause

they look at
the skyline
and it’s different
from what they
had imagined

a lazy orange
sun is counteracting
the ambition

setting and
laying
a palm
on their back

they share the
same cigarette
as it
becomes darker

she has wandered

pawning everything I own
and moving to Nevada
tell all my very good
friends that I’m okay
there is a moment
that I picture when
I want to feel happy
not on a certain block
or during the golden hour
it was all magical and green
and the trees were so delicate
I was kinder then
to myself especially
my words were warmer
perhaps I was in love
with that new place

forward

Maybe this thing
that lingers
that repeats
saved me
or will save me from

something in the future
it’s in my stomach
not so much
an awakening
but a ceiling fan

that I have to keep on
to fight the hot
and humid

the round
orange orb
I should allow
it inside