Poetry

Fool’s Gold

About seven years ago
I forgot how to be funny,
as all humor leaked from me
like water from a cracked vase.
Wit and truth
have become the gold of repair,
veining me up and down
and holding me together.
I could not have mended without
my infinite joking words;
now they burst from me
like fresh-cut bouquets.
They are ephemeral,
but their brightness
lasts long enough.

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Poetry

Big Ifs

If all the hungry
had all the food
they needed,
if all the sleepy
had cozy beds
and rooms to be sweet in,
if all the adventurous
could leave today,
and not worry about the cost,
if all the curious
had all the books
and the time to read them,
if all the exhaustion
came from carefree socializing,
if all the problems
came from something
the weather did
(as in, no one controls it),
if all the pools
were free and open
and clean and warm,
if all the beaches were
for all the people,
if all the medicine were like that too,
my god, we’d be living
in some sort of
near-perfect world.

If we could only
put our wants together
we could make the world
so much better.

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Poetry

Thirsty Plants

Some plants live by desert rules,
a little water
goes a long way
to keeping ’em alive.
Some days I wish
I was a cactus,
taking one sip
and settling in with the sun.
Instead, I
chug my whole bottle
once, twice, at least
three times a day,
taking in so much
water, expelling so much
waste.
I lift my water bottle
again; this is love,
this is life.

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Poetry

I got days

where I floss,
not the dance, I can’t
move right,
but the oral hygiene thing,
I still can’t move right,
forgetting, bleeding
gums and hearts
as I beat
myself for lacking discipline,
I need to learn to
worship at the altar of myself
and my formerly
pearly mouth gates.

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Poetry

when we become dust

our gods will look away, some
times are just hard like
that first snow of the year, which
drops like a mask, quiet,
fast and awe-inspiring.

that first snow, which drops
quiet and fast, it’s like
a mask inspiring awe as
it reveals a face
that is soft, and sad, our gods

watch and lament
our avoidable exit.

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Poetry

Putting away taco fixings

after dinner,
I think that maybe
the first time I saw a perfectionist
was when my stepdad
pulled fast at plastic wrap,
until no creases showed
above a bowl of diced tomatoes.
Now I wonder
what kind of life I have been storing,
tugging this way and that
without stopping?
I am not a bowl of diced tomatoes,
but still, I need
to free myself of this suffocation,
this self-applied plastic.
Otherwise, I’ll sit
and keep forever,
too perfect to live.

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Poetry

The point of a cupcake.

I didn’t think about it
until I reached for one,
sitting in the package,
chocolate frosting impossible to miss.
Tasty goop on my fingers,
I go for a bite
and manage to goopify
my mouth.
I’ve made a mess,
and it was sort of fun –
that is
the point of a cupcake.

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