yellowbirds/blue sky

the sky here is
more like a screen
draping against the edge
of the world
while riding my
bike I like
to stand on the pedals
and stretch my neck towards it
open my mouth as wide
as I can and try to
consume the blue
whole
I pass a mailbox with
two taxidermied
yellow birds sitting on
top , frozen in verb
stance
I pass the mango tree
that was once so ripe
a few weeks ago
the fruit hung heavy
abundant and tumbling
towards the canal
rainbow reflecting
in the water

linear

I am two feet
in front of myself
in sync with the
movements
my skin is a dark purple
and there is a hole
perfect and
circular
in my chest

I look outside and
see the sun shine
in two places

illuminating
the sparkle
and dust
a dark blue

remember what it
felt like to feel it
all at once

heart pulsing
through thick
warm honey

don’t lose the
feeling

Justin

today I have an idea
of what the
light coming through
the window
planting its rays
on the floor in squares
is trying to say to me

mid day I found
out a guy that I graduated
with
died

a week ago
I saw a picture of him
his pregnant girlfriend
and their first child
all holding each other

I thought about
how much love
reflected in the roundness
planet like
belly
circle arms
shiny smiles

today feels superficial
clean white
a hologram
of what I imagined
the saddest part of adult life would be
death and
an eternal minimum wage job

I need more nose
to the earth
right now I’m in a land in between
reality and my personal
equation for it
clinical

6

I like to spend my days
alone and sad
this way, I can laugh
at the sunrise
like I’ve been up all night
I can look out of the window
with my cat Magnolia
two melancholy faces
that don’t know what
the opposite of loneliness is

Angelic

By nine o clock
I have to die
for the plants
it’s sunday night and
the pressure is off
cats by the window
as the sun sets
yellow petals
lie in between each
blade of grass
the fear of missing out
is over
all that is left is water
and black paint
i wait for that
last message
on a stoop
it’s a midsummer
city day
and you’re perfect

Modern Girl

Motherhood in the age
of fear

no, not unless all the people
in the world
disappear

noble man
poems
without titles

Bob stood at the typewriter
in the corner of his room,
drinking red wine
and smoking
and tapping away
relentlessly
for hours

the collapsed cores
left behind
by the final explosion
of dying stars

I try to be
a cool girl