WALKING WHITE WHALE

you ever…

in these moments where

everything suddenly feels afloat?

Oh, the culture shock of 

relocating to a place where 

everything doesn’t revolve around you and 

in fact, nothing 

is insanely not lonely and 

trapped-feeling...

the “comfort zone”, be it cush,

now finds itself inside out,

upturned and you - meaning I-

find, well -- ourselves

riding the wake of the walking white whale

that roams the grass

feeding on firepit ash and easily crushing

every - meaning

our soul in its path

and man, is it terrible. 

THIS THING BETWEEN TEENAGE INTERLOCUTORS

this miss...old poems ahead of their time

so global, yet alone, are we, as if this miss for that familiar,

who once was in my mind, and still remains

Auburn, jet black her eyes,

Cynical optimist, she’s wet tundra, a cold ocean of possibilities…

Frozen surface, cloudy sunrise over sobbing desert, sick with heartache

Tundra’s tears, puddles, sand-smitten reflections 

Her voice, my miss…

A mist

Surrounds broken language, our language, butchered, and still…

it remains, my miss...,graceful, stumbling, and interchangeable vowels

it’s as if this puddle grows

to a well beneath the earth.

through molten core, joining our continents,

impossible.

still, foolishly, i wait for airport days and lanky embraces,

kisses of old misses, and together jet black meets blue.

DANCE

        She decides to float across 

the waves of heat from the towers which have been 

placed to heat the waves of sweating teenagers 

out there in the cold and warmth.

    She drifts heedlessly from night to night 

and from opinions to opinions and follows where the

fun and games go.

  And too often does she find herself 

splayed across the altar of whimsy and

too often does she

taste the breath of unpredictability 

and too often

taste the consequences 

and 

      With stalk eyes, 

gale force winds contained...

    There’s nothing original about noticing the color of eyes-

or comparing them to hurricanes but.

  I can’t help but

      Furrowed red line eyebrows

and I ask to touch her hair 

after my hand is already in it and. 

    She says she looks like a crack whore and

she gave herself tattoos and

pierced her own ears.

 She’s wearing sneakers and a black dress with 

...and it’s open in the back.

I remember how her hips felt, I doubt she remembers my shoulders 

            elastic, tight fabric and bone 

                there isn’t much of her there

and movement

I was too sweaty

she isn’t too warm

her shoulders curve funny

‘i don’t know how to dance either’ 

I suspect she’s lying.

EVERY THOUGHT

not every thought that comes into your mind 

should be 

f---ing written on paper