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
I pass a mailbox with
two taxidermied
yellow birds sitting on
top , frozen in verb
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



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

I look outside and
see the sun shine
in two places

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

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.


mom says don’t talk

I have been violated

it’s forgetful
side effects include: loss of memory
the involved remain faceless

the one I do remember
is an owl,
signaling right before dawn
I hear him in my right ear
closer to the back

I went with a good friend to see a psychic
It felt urgent
she was waiting by the beaded curtain
dressed in the same black that I was
expecting me

I struggled to shuffle the tarot cards
as she told me exactly
what I needed to hear

One memory seems to
tied up in a bondage rope
to only trust the knot
around my wrists

I now walk around with
a decapitated head in my
left hand

a scar
It’s an illness


bare like the trees
and blatantly shattered
he points to his wounds

I press my face
against the winter air
coming through
the window
it’s march things are
about to bloom

but first,

I slip into the crazy

I can tell and
he notices

because as I walk
down the street
a cloud
pulls me away with
the shimmer of something
that is imagined

leaving me stranded
somewhere in between
my world and
the sidewalk