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.

 

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walking in ny

A creaky heart
with each inhale and exhale
is a twig holding the
full
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
through serendipity
for the pleasure of
the moonlight, the streetlight
and the rain from earlier

Treasure from this angle

waiting for(it)

I’m walking through this
New City
more like pacing
and hoping, pacing and hoping
for something
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
a meditation
of crossing my fingers
and hoping that I fall through

the best of

oh ‘so, and so’,
why do they all look like
some version of me
I never thought I would be a number
a fit
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
but inch
forcefully
with little to no grace
as if to say
I’m not ashamed
of pretending

warm and fuzzy intervals

Mother nature is taking its toll
crumpling the paper
and turning it into sprouts
attach
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

colorless
confused feelings

I push you from my mind,
only to still feel you in the room

Anywhere but here

I sit in blank,
with no wording.

Language is what’s lost.
What I need is another,
mood,
another,
state.

Perhaps, I should leave the country,
and acquire a new vocabulary.

How lovely,
to write poetry,
from a charming french cafe.

For now, this empty,
soulless,
Starbucks will
do.
The jazz like rhythm
I yearn for,
will have to come through music.
And the muse,

anywhere but here.