preceding the sunrise

there’s something about the late night quiet
that seeps into your skin
and fills you up from the inside out
sometimes it makes you burst
and you laugh harder than you knew you could
or you cry easier than you thought you would
and sometimes it opens your mouth
and pushes out words you could never say in daylight
ripping out secrets you swore you’d killed and buried
pushing them without grace into someone else’s hands

in the morning, you are peeled open and raw
the sunshine is too bright
the coffee too bitter
and it doesn’t matter if you laughed or you cried
your chest feels lighter
because part of you
is now missing

a dollar’s worth of silence

i want to smash a stack of expensive plates in the middle of the street

and run barefoot through the woods until I’m lost

i want to climb a tree until it sways

and sit there until I’m too cold to stand it

i want to throw rocks through abandoned window panes

and smoke cigarettes until i throw up all over my shoes

i want to drive to the middle of nowhere just to scream as loud as i can

then i’ll lay down in the dirt

and breathe

reach

reach out like you always have
stretch and wiggle your fingers as you search
feel the muscles in your arm become taut as you struggle
pushing with your shoulder, you try harder
and your muscles start to scream as you force them
to keep reaching, stretching further
to continue going forward, until
even your fingertips
vibrate with the strain

you reach out like you always have
but now, what you search for isn’t there
and no matter how much effort you expend
and no matter how many times you try
there is nothing
and you remain

empty

a stupid little poem

sometimes I think that poetry has to be big

that it needs to be existential or ground breaking

that it should be about one of the Big L’s:

life, liberty, love, loss

and that my dumb little poems aren’t poetry at all

but then I remember that in the end, everything’s fucking made up

from words to history to modern society

so I wrinkle my nose and write another stupid little poem

just because it makes me happy

in the wake of Jack Frost

it’s a glittering, slushy mess out there
white winter sunlight melts snow mounds into endless puddles
and snowmen into shapeless piles
it glimmers across snow packed by hundreds of feet
and sparkles through ice covered branches

the crowds shuffle silently
and the birds are all asleep
even the frigid winds have stopped whistling
but the quiet of this chilly morning
is broken
by the drip, drip, drip of dirty icicles

ready

there’s this itch

I feel it in my fingers and my toes,

reverberating with every heartbeat

the urge to get up and go, to drive without destination,

to wander crumbling sidewalks until you’re so turned around you don’t know which way is up,

to visit friends and places we miss so deeply we can feel the ache in our bones;

this insatiable itch isn’t just in my body anymore,

it’s in the air, now, too

infiltrating our waking thoughts and sleeping dreams

until it is vibrating within us-

For now, we can do nothing but sit around

trying to convince our feet to stay still a little longer

as we wait

for the world to change