Love Letter Home
Minneapolis,
you feel like hot tea in the morning
calm, comfortable,
warm inside;
like falling in love anew
each time we wake up next to each other
each time we kiss.
Minneapolis,
I bet you taste like cinnamon in cocoa
at the winter solstice,
and mint ice cream
on my mom’s summer birthday,
or my third beer
on my dad’s pontoon.
Minneapolis,
I know how you sound.
The left channel hosts the loon’s call
and the quiet lap of lake waves,
while the right channel is harsher,
featuring a booted foot crushing down
through the hardened top of snow.
Minneapolis,
you are aromatic too –
a deep breath of morning mist,
in the woods by the lake
is something like therapy,
making up for the months
when frozen snot makes it hard to smell.
Minneapolis,
you look like shit today,
but I really don’t mind.
I like that you don’t try too hard,
I like that you let us see you
as you are
when you first wake up.
Minneapolis,
I have felt your embrace with all my senses.
Sometimes it hurts, honestly,
but through your temperaments
I always seem to want another hug
or another afternoon conversation
about the weather.
But Minneapolis,
let’s not pretend
that you’re not a mystery to me.
You’re far away and I never call,
we’re both busy,
we’re leading separate lives –
I’ve grown up and cut my hair.
Still, Minneapolis,
I miss you.
I forget you,
we all do sometimes.
Home may be defined as love
but also as the place
we most often take for granted.
Return
The movement is in so many places
quietly
in backseats and bars
break rooms and bus stops
if you blink, you might miss it,
you might not see
the beauty in your face.
Perhaps
I’ve been caught blinking,
or running
quickly past it all
amidst the rain
amidst that which weighs
heavily on our hearts.
I’m a fighter, I think,
braving the weather
unprepared equally
for the thunder and the sun,
always gazing through the rainbow
at the on-setting storm,
believing in a future
that is hiding in the present,
if only I looked up more often
to recognize it.
Still
here we are again
overthinking eye contact
from the girl who passed in the hall
she lent you a pen yesterday
maybe this time
it’s for real.
leaves are falling
you’ve got new clothes
and new ways
to feel just a little inadequate –
just enough, it seems,
to last a lifetime.
the daily disasters
destroy us all,
over and over again.
how many times in your mind
will you replay yesterday’s conversation
thinking you failed?
forever is a long time
almost as long as 2 years
or 2 weeks
give or take
a few insecurities
and visions of hope.
i used to think
that middle school was about to end
i’ve since turned 25
and i’m still waiting
to finally grow up
and be sure of myself.
Take Two
All I can hear is the silence
the sort of constant ringing in my ear
the constant voice inside
reminding me of things to do
of emotions I’d rather forget
I bite my pen
anxious
forever anxious, even about a poem
that isn’t really a poem,
that no one will ever read.
I can hear my pen on the paper
mark by mark
the creation of something I can see
A rarity in my life
A concrete moment in time
out of context of the details
crowding out the sensation
that nothing is happening
three years writing the same poem
sleeping alone
listening
afraid
As an organizer I know
I learn
I see
That fear always holds us back
We find convenient excuses
It is hard to say,
“I am weak.”
But I am still afraid
I was always afraid of failure
And all I’ve learned is how much
failure can hurt
Breathing deeply doesn’t make it go away
An over-full calendar doesn’t make it go away
Three glasses of whiskey doesn’t make it go away
A fear of failure
preventing success
sometimes
I am still going to sleep alone
I can barely imagine another life
my mind won’t let me
Even when someone else is in my bed
it still wanders, it still hides in the details
In the calendar
In the meetings, in the next test
Back to chewing my pen
Pausing literally, drifting to work
because I am afraid to fix myself
because I am afraid to be broken
It is a furious thing
to run from life
to live so fully but be so…
empty
my writing is fast and sloppy now
I shake my head
wonder when the tears will come
when the truth will come
when I will feel love
when I will appreciate love
when I will believe in the moment
and not just in the next
I have never lived right now
or I haven’t in a long time
I am always stuck living
in the future or in the past
or in some unhealthy combination
equating the two.
The pages are filling up
the whiskey still sinking in
I love the movement because it is something bigger to be a part of. It gives me meaning, it gives me drive, it gives me a family.
My family is so far away. I am disconnected from love in so many ways.
Disconnected from creation, from energy. I don’t even cook anymore. My happiness is more intellectual than it is emotional and only part of me knows that there is something truly fucked up about that. Or is there? It is all in our head anyway.
Deep breath.
Keep fighting, but start living.
Insomnia
blank pages, blank stares
it isn’t lonely
it’s consuming
it’s everything, everyone
it’s care
careful, cautious, scared and relentless
the challenge is to forget, no
maybe to focus,
on the sound of my pen (moving)
the ambulance (speeding)
the fan (spinning)
the neighbor’s water (running)
but my mind, it seems…
it never wants to be here
never wants to stay here
the background image never
never set quite right
in perfectly calm sounds
there’s always a storm
(of) nerves, i’m nervous, never sitting still
it’s my sweat, my anger
mostly my fear
can’t fuck, can’t feel
can’t heal
can’t be
can’t focus
can’t run away
can’t sleep
Brunch
corners of a country
seen between nights in broken hotel rooms
or sagging couches
life is a weird web of wanderings
reflections i don’t know
what to make of
even over a beer
in an east atlanta bar
at 2 pm
on a sunday
there is no smoking ban here
that’s the most obvious thing
but it sure beats a cafe
and maybe even
my lonely couch in chicago
when i’m home i don’t know
where to run
when i’m gone, i guess i
just never stop running
and there’s a little part of me that understands
the appeal
of “living life” meaning
never really facing life at all
it’s not my specialty
it’s not like lying awake
alone
with an alarm’s obnoxious blare
five hours away
i never really learn
i just keep writing
it’s not the easy path
just the only one i know
sometimes it feels so
crazy to care
even when i’m calm
even in those rare moments when
i believe not just in the future
but also in myself.
Thirty Eight Degrees
I want you by my side, but I know
I wouldn’t be here if you were.
Every time I make that realization
it hurts just as much as the last.
Different Needs
I look to her
to feel better about myself.
She looks to me
to feel better about the world.
It has been an incompatible arrangement
for years.
But it perpetuates
our dreams.
Places You Would Like
So many shades of past
coloring in my night.
Alone in my home city
with a spirit infused by old friends
and a mood tempered by the blues
in a well-decorated bar.
My phone vibrates, transmitting
a different history,
a different kind of love
and a familiar topic.
I hang up, almost six minutes later,
to put my head in my hands
and wonder how I got here
and wonder again how to leave,
how to make myself want to leave,
how to breathe
in and out.
A state of mind, or heart,
about as steady as a flame
in the wind
or on the other end
of my heavy breath.
I shake my head.
That’s all I’ve got.
Capsule
Comfort in a laugh
you can only share
with old friends.
Those moments in life
that can never be destroyed
or broken up with.
Basements burned
into a soul,
jokes told for ten years
at a time.
It helps ease the fear
that nothing worthwhile
will ever last.
Old Kentucky
Songs of the city
shaded in whippoorwills
and sepia-tone imagery.
Headlights and candles
flicker the same
over heartbreak traveling
at breakneck speed
from alarm clock mornings
to dinner bells and
dustbowl ballads.
There is never enough time
to come to terms
with the present, future,
or past.
But every song ever written
and every road ever walked alone
understands, and misinterprets,
love.
Personification
As disheveled as clean cut
in artificial silhouette,
too late
for relativity to matter.
The window approaches,
with creaks and groans
that some year before
would have recognized so much better.
Sounds locked into memory,
along with pain,
climbing stairs slowly,
lacking just the right amount of certainty.
Hesitation a moment before
stops mattering a moment after,
only left to wonder
what is left now.
So closed eyes try to complete the task,
out of focus and dancing,
all black and blue,
too fresh for scars.
Dreams serve more to shake and alarm
than to calmly guide,
they are wisely fleeting
with the rest of the world.
Silence only adds
to this kind of chaos,
as the inferno breathes
the same as you and I.
The blanket and the pillows
don’t know who to trust,
though they never
asked for much in the first place.
In the end, rest is left
running until fear sees
its reflection in a mirror
and pauses everything.
Here, infinity holds a secret:
proximity, it whispers,
has never before
healed a wound.
Different Types Of Wandering
cracked, speckled sidewalks
sit still on warm spring days,
travel quickly on cool spring nights.
are we led by the paths laid before us,
or are the cracks all our own?
I am always asking questions
without answers or reason
beyond awkward attempts
at another course –
forward or backward –
to a world where
I felt something more
than broken ground
beneath my feet.
Bar Stool
No words.
Just a pleasant poison
and background noise.
Waiting
– to get over love
to get over fear,
for another set;
making everything
bigger than it is.
Holding A Mug With Two Hands
a peaceful cup of
peppermint tea,
wrap your heart in
something warm.
sirens are sounding,
Doppler effect
applies to life
as well.
Restless
treadmill
running
punishing
awake in bed
turning
exhausting
time travel
flashes
in technicolor
roll over
still there
accidental marathon
no water
no line
no supporters
just me
that phone call
that email
that conversation
tomorrow
or three years ago
it never happened
never will
nightmares and
documentaries
fragile film
impossible to destroy
self
destruct
construct
visions, fears
roll over
still there
screaming
loving
roll over
still there
pace changing
fighting
falling
asleep
without you.
Hours Before
blank pages
and superstitions
i always know the mistake
i’m about to make.
i think about it
deeply.
i decide against it
and do it anyway.
i’m sure
i’m not the only one.
i am no match
for myself
or my superb ability
to reason.
i am a creature confused
hungry
preparing for winter
forever and always.
searching for what’s warm
and abundant
in my dreams.
it’s time again –
time to know
i’m wrong.
and woefully committed
to not changing
course.
in the midwest,
seasons fade
every day.
New York City
People
outside windows,
on benches, standing,
behind tables,
or walking
briskly.
Buildings
stretching, reaching,
a little too ambitious,
a little too close,
invading every
space.
Parks
mostly fenced in,
locked away,
but one sprawling,
suggesting
beauty past.
Noises
always somewhere,
or everywhere,
a new understanding,
a ninth grade
vocab word.
Trains
lurching forward,
jerking backward,
winding, weaving,
moving lives
in different directions.
Me
wandering, wondering
with a gaze
toward reflection
on my life
as a city.
A Blanket For The Sweating
a spark, to a flame, to a fire
tended for two and a half years.
i stared with wide eyes of a child,
having never seen something so raw,
have never felt something so warm.
i stood close, too close
and sometimes was burned.
but no storm, no rain or wind
was going to conquer that fire!
i would be there, always and forever.
i had no doubt, only fear
that something terrible would happen
if i relaxed, if i changed,
if i took my eye away for one second.
but the natural phenomenon was no longer natural –
its flames ceased dancing,
its pleasant heat faded and fled,
its beauty ripped harshly from the world.
now i’m still standing, just a few feet away,
staring, hoping, dreaming
but shivering cold.
it’s a hard way to learn:
even young love needs oxygen.
Commute
the sun’s warm
against my head-cold.
staff meeting in 30 minutes.
an office with no natural light
for hours and hours more.
we apologize for this inconvenience.
thank you for riding.
