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


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


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

the things that we carry

I’ve been lugging around a ton of rocks.

The boulders settle solidly in my stomach and my heart,
the smaller stones weigh down my cheeks
making it impossible to smile,
and pebbles grind together under my eyes,
blocking tears that are desperate to fall;

All I can think to do
is tear myself apart
digging with cracked fingernails
through muscle and organs and sinew
until the last offensive chip of stone
lies in a bloody puddle on the floor
and I am wholly bared, naked and free.