To enjoy yourself is to reveal yourself
as a heartbreak of irises
or the petals of a bomb.

To describe is to measure
the difference between
what we are and what we expect
to be: if seed,
then the boom; if petal,
then the plume; if blink,
then blink.

I blink and see the edge
of blood accelerate through
the window, if heart pounding,
then the room is empty
and you can see it clearly —

the heart is a bomb shoved
into a glass show and brought
to the party as our getaway plan.


To wake in full face of a mouth gaping
on giant yawn, teeth raw like Sunday’s ache
and glacial morning breath, to be unseen
in a land of mirrored sky, I do not think
it was a great idea to get so high
last night, man, but shit, you see that bird?
I think it was an eagle, osprey, some prey
bird! Bugs, man, everywhere, you kill em good
though! Let’s climb to the top of that mountain
to find where purple turns to blue and shits
beautiful on everyone. I got
the beers, you got the snacks? Ready to go,
wait, fuck, headache, let’s have our coffee first.

Written during a Brooklyn Poets Yawp event, based on the prompt of writing about a beautiful experience in plain language in iambic pentameter. Or something like that.

Cross the wilderness, nail it down,
it’s impossible to tell from the picture
whether it’s true or false - that’s how
I hate to begin, plagued by uncertainty
and devouring space with faulty
mathematics of fate. Running away
from this, everything, is the same
as running away from nothing.
Most stories begin in finding meaning
in meaningless things, and I don’t want
hurt what I love or care about
so let’s make a case for the hammer.

10 Jun 2014 / 27 notes / poetry poem lit ttb poetry 

If a world can be framed, then
we can also make sense of it:
numbless clouds plod on
the horizon, invading the coast;
when its answer can’t be put into
words, out-singing a squadron
of gulls, then neither can the question-
the riddle cannot exist outside
of a whistling defiance to the rain.
Gather up the space between the stars
to find enough to grab and shake
hands with your departed ghost.
If that’s the answer, then the sense
of the world lies outside of it.

7 Jun 2014 / 115 notes / poetry poem lit ttb poetry 

The room is empty, cept for sunlight
whose age I forgot and tried
not to die in. I’m squinting at some
indiscernible offing, sparrows of light
dancing in the decor and I want more
than youth being defined as that without
a past. Adventures are always around
even if they’re trying to squeeze
into a pair of glass shoes. Just go on
until the future is an awkward nirvana
instead of a reality, glinting in a 5 AM
sun or a picture of it (impossible to tell
if it’s true or false but try to solve it).

5 Jun 2014 / 35 notes / poetry poem lit ttb poetry