I'm a lot of things. But for the time you read this, you can call me yours :)

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Michiko and the Thousand Paper Cranes

I want to be unfolded
into a perfect square of construction
crisp around the corners; cut me to pieces
and the beauty of your imagination
will break my wings.

There's something about origami
that reminds me of struggle,
and hands that are to big to grasp
some of the details
are always destined to view the big picture
but never fly.

There's an old superstition
that says 1000 paper cranes
can save you
but I don't know if my fingers
are that elegant,
if the blood from papercuts taints the fortune
or if you get credit for trying.

Some of the wings are lopsided,
some of the corners are torn
but these are the beauties of imperfections.
And I want to make them out of tissue paper
in honor of your thinning hair
but I'm afraid of breaking you
like I've broken
1000 things
that I love.

So I will make them
rugged as your exoskeleton
a folded masterpiece too beautiful
for tumors. And radiation may hurt but always remember -
Hiroshima survived chemotherapy.
And I'll keep folding
until I've loved you
1000 times over
into the only Japanese words I really know -
kibou, hope.
origami, paper folding.
We did it.

Monday, August 23, 2010

I sometimes feel bad that I mix personal stuff with writing-related stuff here. Then I realize nobody reads this anyway. Just wanted to drop in and say:

It's a good thing you're not going to stand here and wait for a hero. Because fuck you, I'm going on vacation. Leave your complaints on my office door.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Brandon's Lullaby

Ghost prisoner dances in an old window.

The girl dies when the music stops

and this house has been quiet for years now,

with footsteps echoing through the cracks in the attic floor

but never reaching the bottom of the stairs

I wonder how many haunting are self-imposed.

Don’t cry tonight, my baby. . .

Last week, I saw something I thought I’d never witness.

Saw a man’s stone fa├žade falter

alternate between guilt and sadness

the now and the then

the past and the present

but now. . .I can see the spirit fading from his eyes

tell he is human for the first time

and see he is not a polished rock flowing from the river of family photos

my father is no stone.

He’s simply a trucker.

And in the sleeper of a semi it’s nothing but him

his radio and his memories

dancing in the swaying of curtains and sounds like

similes when you’re trying to write a poem

always present but just out of reach

so he captures them in homemade music boxes.

Don’t cry, you’ll always be loved. . .

And ‘always’ is always longer when you make a decision you can’t take back,

so he finds solace in songs and sheet music

jagged and smudged like the signature across the bottom of a release form.

My brother

passes through these walls like a phantom, fast as a haiku like

a stranger to me.

Often wonder if our eyes

are the same color.

He dances in that window

a captive my father cannot let go

waiting for the day that 15-year old feet

bounce off the bottom of the landing

and out the door

to rebel against him

bring back a report card, a trophy, a girl, a mistake

but that sound never comes

when my father’s memory is only lit by that window

and I wonder how much harder it is to abort a child

when you can look him in the eyes.

Now I realize why he always tells me

to appreciate the beauty of the little things.

Knowing that even though his blood runs through that boy’s veins

he’ll never be there to keep Brandon warm again

knowing he held a masterpiece in the palm of his hand

and let it free for the “better life” he was promised

giving up on the music he made with a lover

I’ve judged without truly knowing.

Nothing I could say could make the music box gears spin

I could cry moment but that them up again

and the silence in my father’s house is deafening.

Maybe that’s why I left.

I could make him proud

I could make him smile

But I’m only one son.

And even when I have the audacity to wonder

how often he dreams of Brahm’s lullaby

or days playing in the Colorado snow –

I know there is no poem

that can bring Brandon back but please poppa

if you can listen to the music instead of just making it.

Thursday, August 19, 2010


Sorry I've been so slack on updates, whomever may be reading this. Just wanted to drop in right quick (God how I love the south and our idioms) and say that this week has rocked HARD. I feel on top of the world and no force is going to stop that. I think this video about sums it up:

I have been waiting, I have been waiting for you. . .

until next time, dear reader.

Monday, August 16, 2010

8 Things to Say to a Blizzard.


Fortune favors the bold

but it’s hard not to shiver

when you’re so icy.


As a kid in the south,

it’s always been more likely to rain

than to snow.

The 1001 variables must weave into one another

like dancers looking for partners

or future lovers catching each other at perfect moment

for the air to crystallize between their gazes

and cool off the heat that separates love from lust,

dissolving like dust from diamonds –

the dashing we do changes everything.


The weather outside is frightful,

and the rest, as they say, is history.

And there’s a lot of that

in the wreath on my door

the photos on my shelves

and the person I used to share both with.

The storm isn’t so scary

from in front of the fire –

I admit: though I no longer hang your stocking,

and through sips of my grandmother’s recipe eggnog

I often forget you, there are still nights

where I wish you’d fall into my arms

like a 73” dream-catcher and lay your head down.


Tell me say me cher

my belle

I’ll be gone till November. . .

Leaving in some places and just arriving others,

your very essence is a matter of perspective

and they call your beauty debatable.

You remind me of a dawn or dusk

in the arctic circle: all good things

begin and end sooner or later

and most of all it depends

on where you’re watching the sun go down.


I hold a north star in my bloodline.

I always wander, never get lost

and never snowblind

but I keep finding myself back where I began.

Maybe I’m a supernova

distant from society, waiting to collapse

wondering why it hasn’t happened yet.

All the gravity of the city

trying to bring us together

only serves to break us apart.

This is what dead things do.


If I ever meet an ice road trucker

or talk to my dad again

I’ll let them know

it’s nothing personal.


If this is what the end of the world feels like,

I welcome it. With the cackling crackle of embers

on Christmas Eve

and the wind whipping the world,

causing the trees to bend and kiss one another

under the mistletoe they’ve grown in the 100 years

they have been planted here shows me:

now is the gift we call the present.


If I could have one wish for the world

for my loved ones and for myself,

they’d all be the same:

that we learn we are all more similar

than we are separate.

Every single flake is unique

yet they manage to stick together

love the simple things like snow days

and hot cocoa,


and silence.

And since all that’s left of the storm is silence

let me say:

We are so different.

So different,

yet exactly the same.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Ruminations at 3AM

I think
that the little gnomes
that steal socks from the dryer
have gone on break.
I have matching socks
(that I never wear)
but the house feels just a bit too quiet
and I don't trust myself
in a house that's too quiet.

I think the toaster's going off
that the toilet's overflowing
that the rosebush outside needs pruning
but not until I find the sock gnomes.
They're probably drinking little drinks
with little straws with little umbrellas sticking out
finally combing the lint from their beards
as I'm putting out a search party
for the sound I've grown so accustomed to.

And even up until today,
when my house is a disaster
I can't stop searching
and all I want
is to be everywhere at once
but my fingers only stretch so far,
can only grip so much,
only touch 10 points within the 73"
of my wingspan.

And I think I've deadened the white noise
listening for my socks to go missing
while I walk around barefoot in neglect.

Thursday, August 5, 2010



no matter what you do

you are caught in the crossfire

of dirt in flux.

When the earth moves,

the people blame Atlas

for having the audacity to catch a cramp

instead of blaming their own moving feet.

I used to wonder what it would be like

to be a Titan.

And then the world fell

and now I have to fight through the pain

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Facing the Giant that is the Future.

I feel like I write up here plenty, but I really don't blog enough. Or maybe I blog just as much as I should. I really have no idea. So I guess this will be my state of the blogger address.

My fellow interweb lurkers,

There comes a time in ever (wo)man's life where (s)he comes to a crossroad. For this writer, this time is coming as I'm working on a chapbook and looking towards my future after college. Searching for publishers, shopping grad schools, job hunting. . .it's all rather difficult to pull off but it's going smoothly.

Now that the boring's out of the way, let me just say this: I have not disappeared. I have not died and I have not by any means quit writing. But if you don't hear from me for a bit, it may just be life trying to take me under. I'll let you know now, though, there's two things that I never do easy: scare and die. I will not be bested by stress, anger, fear, jealousy, or all the ugly things in this world. I almost succumbed to them, but I was not defeated. I never give up.

On that note, I'd like to urge you to do the same. Never yield. Live on your feet, die when you're ready and with a smile on your face ready to greet the reaper saying "bring it motherfucker, I'm not afraid of you anymore." I can honestly say that while I don't feel ready to die (obviously, I'm 21), I don't fear death anymore. It's nothing personal. The waves don't crash for a reason. They crash because that is what waves do. Things happen and they are inevitable. Don't anticipate, but live each day like the waves are about to take you under and when you go, go knowing that you put in all you could to make your life as awesome as possible. Remember, you are beautiful, you have meaning, and someone somewhere loves you more than they love themselves. Make their love worth sharing. As my good friend G would say:

". . .but she'd NEVER be defeated."

Will you? Will you allow yourself to fall to the rigors of the world or will you face them with a smile and say "It's time to go to work"? Tomorrow's waiting. Who's coming with me?

Peace to you, dear reader.

PS: In relation to the above quote:

Big shouts to G for putting down an epic piece.