it will stay

i can't stop breaking down



if you surround yourself with cheap, disposable objects
if you fill yourself with cheap, disposable foods
if you immerse yourself in cheap, disposable literature
if you expose yourself to cheap, disposable cinema

you yourself become a cheap, disposable person.

i am trying to simplify my life, sure.
clear out all that i do not need.
rid myself from grabbing materialism.
but i will continue to have expensive taste
and demand high quality from what i put into my body
and into my brain.



nothing more tense than the family at christmastime. am i right, friends?

i say this with a laugh, because i have learned from years past. i've got it figured out.

to quote bill maher's mother, "every family is dysfunctional."



i am writing this poem for you, sir,
for you who remembers
the sort of emotion that goes into these things.
for you who warned me
about first loves and last fights.
for you who knows
a poet when he sees one.

i am writing this poem for you, sir,
in hopes that when you read it
you do not see yourself in it, but,
in your own knowledge, you can feel
all the hundreds of sirs who have spoken
or will speak to me in this way,
giving me words to work with.

i am writing this poem for you, sir,
for the kind of sir who is ever-present
in the writing of all poetry.
for the kind of sir who gives
to the next generation with wild hopes.
for the kind of sir who believes
in the poignancy of dreams, in the inability of nothing to happen.


leaves and kings

i'm not sure why i write in all lowercase letters, anymore.
maybe i ought to change?

but habit dies hard, and this is almost a part of me, now.

bad music makes my heart hurt.
so do bad situations.


white nights

dostoevsky is not a word acknowledged by spell check, and i have no idea why.
he is phenomenal, and i had forgotten my love for him.
i came home, back to the city where i first read his words.
(home is where you discover great art. this is my definition for now.
a person could have so many homes in this fashion.)

i knew that this love story could not really be just about love. after all, what love story is?
and although i am not finished, i am sure it is love unfilled.


words, words, always

reading poetry and crying, crying
i know who i am
i know who i am
i know who i am

but what it means has yet to come
and where you are means nothing now

doors are opening and spring is only
hidden beneath the eternal snowfall

i am emoting and retracing my steps
made with light shoes and heavy heart

words are all that is left at this point of
no return, no leaving, no indecisive staying

this building was built with a strong
foundation, and founding a nation was
only the first step in a line of many
mistakes, breaks, and undertakers.

bury me in a small jar
bury me in the back yard
or don't bury me at all
just leave me somewhere
for strangers to find
and perhaps write a poem about


kick me.

i would have given you credit for pretending, but you couldn't even get that far.

[sometimes, it is so difficult to explain, what i want and what i do]


one more cent

just one application, three songs, eight months and a hundred emotions between me and where i want to be


glass house

it just feels so good to be honest.

you can see me, even if i can't see you.


two thousand words

i feel like these pictures explain everything.

i really don't have much to say.


places with trees

i haven't got any words to put here yet, but i will sometime soon.
and i think maybe that scares me.



i am sitting here at almost-6:30 in the morning looking at pictures of the terrorist attacks in mumbai, and i'm not sure what to think.

how can people do this
how can people do this to other people
didn't you know what you'd do to them
that boy lost his parents, and his three aunts
and is in a hospital alone, only ten, experiencing
pain like no other pain before
and that boy lost his parents, too, but he is much younger
and won't ever know them
except through photographs and other peoples' stories

is this what you intend to do to humanity?
is this somehow the plan of your god?
to inflict pain and suffering upon all of the innocents of the world?
how does this even make sense to you?

it is preposterous to think that any religion would condone this,
and yet
here come the extremists.

[it is at this point where i feel like organized religion is just enabling, enabling.
it can also enable good things
but some people should just not be allowed to have it, because it is taken too far.]



for all my friends who are in or have been in the same places i am walking through
for old friends who know where i can go if i want to
for young friends who have infinite hopes for me

for beautiful friends i love and know and see greatness in.