April 15th, 2014

tree poems

you make me want to start poems with “always.”

your hands feel like constellations
running through my hair,
like sparks from fire,
there are mountain roots in your brown eyes
and i have never seen
a smile more like sunlight —
you are roots and oak trees
and i am ready to stop being a forest fire.

you make me feel like i could be a tree too.
hey, if you’ll be an oak
i’ll be a birch
or maybe a maple like
the ones that grow in the berkshires,
yeah?

March 24th, 2014

gin and tonic

i ebb and i flow, tidal —
periods of heavy rain
and silent sullen clouds
chasing long droughts down like rivulets
of rainwater down a pine trunk.

you know:
the western juniper
lives in the high desert and waits for every drop of water
(about ten inches per year, i read)
and in the badlands a western juniper
has been growing growing growing for
one thousand
six hundred years
through drought and heavy desert rain.

i am getting better,
is what i’m trying to say.

March 13th, 2014

life cycle

thecleveresttitle:

listen,
i would crack my ribs open
with my bare fucking hands and leave
my entrails rotting in
the broken down home of my ribcage
in the high desert sun —
to hell with the buzzards, they can have the meat of me
and kill this hopeless feeling
when they eat my liver —
worked for prometheus, i think.

listen,
i would give this fucking fog back
to where it belongs in the tops of the pines
on a cold spring morning in
the mountains,
and let the dawn burn it off
put it back in the water cycle and rain it down
to give life to the ferns and the moss
and the worms and the birds
and the squirrels —
i would self immolate if that would
burn it off my eyes.

listen, listen,
the little frogs, the spring peepers are still singing
and the little white buds are blossoming today

and i am still on fire,
i am still fighting myself,
i am still unmade.

life cycle

listen,
i would crack my ribs open
with my bare fucking hands and leave
my entrails rotting in
the broken down home of my ribcage
in the high desert sun —
to hell with the buzzards, they can have the meat of me
and kill this hopeless feeling
when they eat my liver —
worked for prometheus, i think.

listen,
i would give this fucking fog back
to where it belongs in the tops of the pines
on a cold spring morning in
the mountains,
and let the dawn burn it off
put it back in the water cycle and rain it down
to give life to the ferns and the moss
and the worms and the birds
and the squirrels —
i would self immolate if that would
burn it off my eyes.

listen, listen,
the little frogs, the spring peepers are still singing
and the little white buds are blossoming today

and i am still on fire,
i am still fighting myself,
i am still unmade.

February 27th, 2014

fly away home

1.
you make a home where
the grass is greener than maple leaves,
and the sky is bluer than
child eyes,
and dogs bark and babies squawk,
and the world is flat
and faintly curving at the edges,
and it fades with every year that passes these
growing greying eyes, as every winter turns
and geese fly overhead to homes
they can still remember

2.
you make homes in people
and that doesn’t work:
people are structurally unsound, poor pillars,
ribs are frail and the heart walls are strong
but the foundation’s shit, you know?
people are always leaving instead of loving, and so
you cry homeless to the seagulls
living two hundred miles from shore,
and they cry too,
"we know."

3.
you make homes where you find them now:
in ponderosas and junipers.
you build them from lava rock and black sand and moss
and cold white water bleeding fresh into salt.
you build them with people
and find green grass growing inside
and crows gossiping on the roof and
robins laying blue eggs in the elbows of trees,
just like when you were smaller.
you are a builder
like your hands craved —
you are callused, grown and growing still.

February 23rd, 2014

lowkeywalker:

brownglucose:

cj-sewers:

It blows my mind that after all this time you’ve spent on earth, nobody ever bothered to tell you that your eyes aren’t fucking brown.

They are copper against honey and sage and when they water they glow, two perfect orbs the same shade as nature after it rains.


You’re not as simple as they wanted you to be.

"you’re not as simple as they wanted you to be"

wow

(Source: sailorp00n, via miss--information)

February 17th, 2014

corners

i spend the nights without you writing
and starting all my poems with
"sometimes"
instead of “always”
bad habits die the slowest deaths

i feel like i have been folded
by capable hands into origami shapes
my skin a pretty paper
faded now like the sound of rain on windows —
i can’t help being a paper crane —
i was just parchment
to somebody once
and now i am creased into place

i can’t help being scared of your mouth
and your hands
when someone i thought i loved
took me apart with hands and mouth

but your eyes are green-brown and beautiful
and warm like earth and grass
and things that thrive in sunlight and rain

and so i love you,
with every broken heartbeat.

February 10th, 2014

the second time you fall in love

you’re —
orange light on blue snow,
a breathless november homecoming
from the wilder woods
to the hearth.

i love you like a memory i thought i had forgotten.
i love you like a prism,
in a million glittering refractions.
i love you in the way only
broken things can love —

with —
temerity, and timidity
in equal measure,
with questions on my fingertips
but soft smiling eyes.

February 6th, 2014

“i quit smoking in a day and
i terrified her.
i asked her why.

she said:
because. a person that
can quit smoking in a day,
can leave behind anything
and not look back.

what she meant was,
i could leave behind
anyone.”

- “habits”, hafsa atique

(Source: hafsaatique, via youmebmd)

January 30th, 2014

northwest

sometimes i think you
are a ponderosa pine, taller than anything out east,
always green, unfazed by fires.

sometimes i think you
are the first time i saw the mountains when i
stepped off that plane,
unreal, fragile,
like a backdrop ready to fall and reveal
that you were never there at all.

but there are pines,
and there are mountains,
and you are here.