the lost art of critical thinking

It came from the fear of abyss, the excess of hoards, toadstools of desolate tyranny, choking— the comments, scrolling, we ingest the arsenic, pain-killers of reversal, fiddling with twigs of fire—the sweltering squeal of life. We belong to the sparrows, and they to us. The lilies, our sisters, and yet, we are so fearful of […]

gelid pews

we feast:  taco pie,  hazelnut-soy-latte (iced), white wine with dangling fruits, chive-French-fries con ranch, butter, butterflies. I wear old-and-dirty clothes, eat chips, like I’m young enough to die, but I’ll do it anyways. Two chairs rock, wobble to-and-fro like God himself sits and chews tobacco. Rine and dine, fine wine. Single women in tight get-ups, […]

just more milliennialism

Modernity is the waterfall’s milk as an iced hazelnut latte, and the white-washed stems are glow sticks to break from their mother and watch the veins tear. It’s not as if the waterfall itself is made of coffee, but it’s what we see, and what we think of solitude is not mundane but relief. Four […]

if patience is a virtue, I am not good 

I’m reading the poem out loud, to really put it up there, and I always look at the top spine, checking how far I am into it. He asks, “What’s the rush?” I say, “Life is short.” There’s too much to consume, and maybe this is what people are talking about when they say abortion. […]

why we have nails

1. Hey! Relax, her shirt says, but I’m bleeding out my fingertips to touch something green too, too, too much to do. There’s a race in progress. No shit.  The time has passed to swim, or it’s storming, but maybe it’s just pollution, both in the air and in their words. Airplanes are deceiving, more […]

(your) Search Engine (is) Scripture 

The other side is not absent of gravity, but somewhere living in the pixels of our identities. Don’t pretend like you don’t live on that little line called “about me” like a tumbly, ole bear called Pooh. He lived on those lines too, and we’re all a character in someone’s illustrations—God, or maybe Tom from […]

we are who we are

  Every Single Word Is A Metaphor, And So Is His Name.   The brown, feathered Paddler trusted me—thought I was him. I breathed, waded that wet transparent Savior; therefore, I exist.   If we must fall in love with Everything, who stands a chance against the poets? It is not thinking, nor the order […]