When
did I stop
paying attention to gravity
Who
untethered
my heart
Did anyone see
the sugar
in my chest melt
Early this morning
when a parade of little humans
read poems in the post-storm air
Who noticed
my body collapse, releasing joy like
a small door
Does anyone
know if love
ever has an accurate weather report
is it the opposite of humidity?
is it this scene in front of me?
Outside,
Lightning is all the sky talks about
Houston has a clapping chatter mouth,
bayou tongue, thundering teeth.
I drive by a series of buildings all dark
except the dance studio second-story window
where I see an elderly couple
waltzing
alone
together—
so this
is the face of love’s
rhythm after it has grown?
I am almost crash the car
in a flash of grace.
I’ll never be the same.
The rain makes it so easy to fall apart.
Stay inside of yourself.
The trees flurry with reason
Weather is all about rhythm
Nothing trembles for trembling’s sake
I can sleep through thunder
I can dream through thrashing
Why is nobody impressed?
What’s left of my body besides
the crumbs of love?
If you don’t know the answer,
please,
Don’t guess.
What do we want?
More certainty!
When do we want it?
I don’t know!
Tomorrow!
Maybe!
And the days
Parade
Forth.
The Unknown
Unceremonious.
Want is a seashell pretending to be the ocean.
That’s why Van Gogh cut off his ear.
Where’s the rationale for rejection?
How do you measure the value
of something lost?
Benefit of the doubt is a stupid phrase.
Nobody benefits from doubt.
Not in this country.
Belief only
Please.
After Emily Kendal Frey
If you level a building
Watch,
More light appears.
Whoever says fresh laundry is overrated
is probably afraid of death.
The best things in life are infinitely ending.
Take for example, the perfect parking spot.
I’m through with insincerity.
Caring is cool.
White privilege is real.
On behalf of joy,
I explain the creativity behind four-berry jam.
When my friends fall in love
The yeast in my heart rises.
Fly too close to the sun
and you might become heat resistant!
Goodbyes are sweltering.
If love has one condition,
Can it be breakfast in bed?
Another word for love is honest.
I hear Chrysanthemum tea
is the enemy of anxiety
A lot of people disagree
You can’t make me sad
Life is too rad
I say! Loudly! To the mirror! At home! Alone!
My great-grandma’s name was Bernadine.
I have neglected pretty thoughts.
I can name a million feelings
better than sadness.
You don’t have to convince me.
If you level a building,
Watch,
More light appears.
The bones of being alone
Break every last one.
Bubbles play ballet in the parking lot
A little girl travels by her own breath
Down the street, the swing set is busy
Throwing laughter like a pendulum
The sun is everyone’s friend
The parking lot at H-E-B is full
No one is left at home today
Everyone is falling in love
Flowers at Home Depot
My mother watches me reverse
From the boy on her wall
And out onto the road
The tree in front of our house
is the biggest it has ever been
I trust my little brother
I’m getting better at hugs
Not quite a perfectionist
A student of mine once told me
She likes I’m not a perfectionist because
Perfectionism
Is just a hologram of ego
A-ha!
Look at all my substance!
Seriously, the weight of my heart is substantial
Watch, I can win arguments without raising my voice.
Watch, I can go a whole day listening
I’ve made up my mind
Life is a good idea.
I do not surrender!
These eggs need salt!
The smile is still my natural habitat.
Chicken soup says I love you.
I haven’t set an alarm for my heart.
Sleeping in late is actually a form of medicine.
All your ex-girlfriends agree:
you did nothing wrong.
This just in!
One day, your name will be someone’s favorite song.
9/30:
You read a poem
And a woman says
Thank you.
You finish your set, covered in sweat,
and a man praises the rhythm
in your voice, says he could the hear
movement, feel the intention,
Says he could see
the craft behind all this
excavation,
assures you someone is always
paying attention.
A mother comes to you,
her voice is quiet but nurturing,
tells you about the sweet
sensitivity between each word you say,
how when you said how you felt,
beauty was all she could see
and you are buried by
The sincerity.
Before you, an audience
who has come here to hear
the stories you have to tell.
Someone asks to buy your poem
but none of this has ever been
about profit.
You were sixteen and sad
and a journal was all you had.
You were seventeen and sad
and a voice was all you had.
You were eighteen and sad
and the language had one purpose:
To Fix.
Then you step on a stage
and everyone knows your name.
You can’t keep your thoughts
to yourself, but everyone
still listens.
How lucky are you?
At this point,
You are twenty three and happy to announce
after the poems are read,
and the poets have left,
and all the audience believes
in poetry again,
you still have to stop and breathe it all in
you still have to hug every poet
because you could not be here without
them, because this is your community,
and when will your life ever be this meaningful?
this true?
Even when the poets have gone
love is the last word in the room.
Son, the first time you come
to Flavor Town, you will want to eat
everything. You will look
at your hands
memorize the size of
what you can hold.
Only fools rush in
so wait for the invitation
learn to love food
by the dance of heat.
A woman’s body is not for you to eat
not for you to pick apart
but to ask for the recipe,
to see what you need,
in hopes of being needed,
to be worthy of her kitchen.
I don’t care how hungry you are
you don’t get fed
just because
you hear a
growl.
Don’t just show up.
You need an invitation.
Make sure not to chew
with your mouth open.
Are you hungry?
Are you hungry?
Are you hungry?
Are you hungry?
Do not confuse
I could eat
for
eat me.
Do not confuse
I’m hungry
for
I’m hungry for you.
I beg of you. I’m hardly a perfect man.
But when the food is hot, wait your turn.
Just because your mouth is open
doesn’t mean you get fed.
When you hear
it is time
to break
bread,
think of your mother
washing your plate.
You don’t always
get seconds.
You are not even promised
first.
If she doesn’t want you
in her kitchen,
say yes, Chef!
When she says her body is out of bounds,
say yes, Chef!
You are, after all, a guest.
You cannot savor the dish
until she sets the table.
6/30: REJECTAMENTA
“The poem that is merely painful revelations:
my impulse to tell you everything –
which may destroy everything”
– Theodore Roetheke
I know how it feels
when you trick your heart
into being someone else’s treat.
But smiling alone
with you
is how the blood
in my body
refused to rot,
rejected deceit,
rose like a wave &
now the mystery is
who wants to swim
in the mud of love?
who wants to break
the cycle of breaking?
No, I do not know all
my hauntings by name,
but a history of hurt is here,
constant presence, always relevant
but this
is not a poem about defeat.
This is merely pain revealing itself.
This is a monsoon of magnolias
against the grey blanket of morning.
This tired legacy of failed reciprocity
does not bewilder me, the promise of new joy
is a gentle riddle lust cannot solve,
if my heart is knotted, don’t let love resolve,
untie or cut the twist, I just need you to
show up and mean it.
I’ll forget the history of hurt
if you just keep showing up,
turn this historic loneliness
into something we can both fix
the both of us,
your arrival,
the beginning,
apotheosis—
finally, all my fear
furnace bound &
lovemaking
is the quiet smoldering,
which may destroy
everything.
A POEM A DAY 