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.
A creaky heart
with each inhale and exhale
is a twig holding the
red belly of a
little bird that travels nocturnally
Walking past the bar that looks
like a 1920’s gathering
with its yellow round bulbs
decorative and dark borders
The trash on the sidewalk
seems to have come together
for the pleasure of
the moonlight, the streetlight
and the rain from earlier
Treasure from this angle
I’m walking through this
more like pacing
and hoping, pacing and hoping
even a terrible something
that a piano will fall on top of me
after a construction worker yells
dropping from the top floor
every grate, is a moment of prayer
of crossing my fingers
and hoping that I fall through
oh ‘so, and so’,
why do they all look like
some version of me
I never thought I would be a number
into someones type
I start to fold the chair
and place it against the
pale pink chipped wall
light fills the holes
to look like scales
move closer to me
stay in your chair
with little to no grace
as if to say
I’m not ashamed
Mother nature is taking its toll
crumpling the paper
and turning it into sprouts
to this pen
hang on the edge
I just want to lay face down
on the wet grass
my mind is full of delusions,
and there is no proof of the love,
or a continuation,
or any resolution
a reunion of the same
I push you from my mind,
only to still feel you in the room
Maybe a hippie commune
isn’t the best place to find love,
reiki hands up,
palms facing me
hypnotist in training,
go to sleep
sure, these places are filled with love,
so much love talk,
but not an exclusive
A communist love making ground,
probably don’t fit in here,
I sit in blank,
with no wording.
Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,
Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.
For now, this empty,
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,
anywhere but here.