Tag: poetry

Over Christmas I started making it for him, my dad has a workshop, so I made him a wooden cooking spoon!

RoosRoast, 10:00AM, 3/29/2025

a sleight of your hand and the coffee has splashed across the white: the countertop a constellation of heartbeats, the marble annotated with stars. a sleight of your hand, this falling. your soul is stitched into tragedy and still i pulled the thread, hanging on for dear life, unraveling us both. the fourth law of physics: inertia is the toil and ecstasy is the reward. my autobiography will spill your name all over the margins, each footnote an explosion of springtime. do you remember the flowers? i wish you would.

I am learning how to make a crème brulee!

Do you have a torch?

I have a very big torch.

West Medical Center, 4:00PM, 2/25/2025

the fire burns bright blue, a blue that cannot be caged or stoked or photographed. the kind of blue that can be only described by a look–sapphire and cerulean and the teal from a stack of thick glass–the kind of look you never forget. i wear your lenses and they distort my vision: they turn you into stars, a bright pulse of glowing light. no one has ever looked at me this way. did you ever ask me what i wanted to tell you? a scar in my retina, long after the sun sets, long after i get my answer. there is blood and there is sky and there is nothing in between. a face so white, you would have thought i saw a ghost–

It reminds me of your mom, because back in high school she used to do it and then she would flip her hair back and I thought it was the coolest thing ever!

Ann Arbor City Club, 10:00AM, 3/22/2025

we are always evolving, though not necessarily in the forward direction. i met a man who claimed he could change the past–isn’t that funny? we can all change the past, if we choose to remember it differently. our neurons are built on a foundation of quicksand, always moving, always drowning; quiet your mind and they lose their tension, sinking, never to resurface. flushed away, a bitter flavor seeping out of filter paper. diffusion, effluence, transition state. a recipe for a coffee stain on a countertop: a sprinkle of indifference and a dash of luck.

I have no clue what’s going on, but these are some of the smartest people on campus, so I wanna stick around.

The Graduate, 12:30PM, 2/8/2025

there is a lyricism in our thought process that cannot be accurately transcribed. in linguistics class they teach you how hard it is to explain the grammar of your native language. our way of thinking is shaped by the words molding our subconscious. if you slice into the brain you will see sheets of flesh–sheets of metal-rippling, wrinkling. the brain is not proof of a deity, just as the goat is not proof of the devil. the others grow pale. they vomit, they always turn away–but i am used to blood.

I’ve been working here since 1987, which means I’m as old as dirt but I don’t remember anything…

Ann Arbor Thrift Shop, 1:30PM, 3/10/2025

it pains me to think that i dragged you down, an anchor dropped in the middle of the ocean. perhaps i must birth a child and continue the cycle–i have wasted my potential on my youth and now it is my responsibility to move forward. to settle. a term used for dust, for sandbanks, for pioneers on conquered lands. a snake of a word, writhing on my tongue. i lick my teeth and purse my lips, like you and your mother and your mother’s mother, a branch of coral crystallizing in the cold. a deep breath–the kind that comes before a deeper lie–and you take the plunge.

When you start digging, you’ll start finding things you never knew. Like even just right down the street from me there’s open writing workshops. I had no idea! It’s in the next block!

Duderstadt Connector, 1:30PM, 3/25/2025

i pick and pick, your face a scar to remind me of the slit, of the risk. of the consequences–it will hurt every time i sneeze, or fall asleep on my side, or draw a sharp breath. the heart is a forgetful organ, though it might insist otherwise. it will pulse frantically at every outline, every shape and figure and song and recipe. like a dog leashed to a pole, wagging its tail at every passerby: hidden underneath, a cry for help, in the only way it knows how. the heart knows nothing except expansion and contraction, so it beats and beats, and cries, and cries. i pick and pick, until there is nothing left.