; a cotyledon i.e. a draft, an embryonic poem

(this doesn't include the many books I stopped reading and put aside for later, which is something I'm happy I learned how to let myself do this year)

After "Autopsy" by Donte Collins 

I become a pigeon, stretchmarks and re-situated pain plunge me into a passion for living. No, I don't want to release but reel in the unforgiving nature of skin and our oblong bodies. Lavender rain trickles into the cracks in obtuse shapes, acute bones protruding on replanted neon green grass. Together, we are geometric goo [...]

You compare your tree to mine,the rust and the water, it all circulates in the same sky. You compare your rocks to mine, higher or longer, more or less, and the space we occupy becomes our very life, how we count wrinkles, the taste of salt stings out tongue so that we cannot taste anything [...]

I was sitting on the top of my dad's four door beige-tan Honda, eating watermelon down to the rind with my cousin only two weeks older than me, and I told him that maybe I'm just not a patriotic person. I was probably under ten, and sitting in the middle of cars and pull-out lawn [...]

I have no fear of artificial intelligence—only a fear of loneliness, because I've TASTED it, and my mind is hungry.

Monotony is the spinach in my teeth, the aquantaince I grin at, the spinach still lodged inside my itchy gums. It is as beautiful as the breath in winter, ice on tongues, and cough syrup. You are the needle, the transfusion, the plain vanilla yogurt. I am the toothbrush, the shower, the bran flakes. Let [...]

**BAD POETRY**  You think you've got cool salsa, spicy and rich.  Mines ugly and trying to be paleo to lose some weight and remember Jesus, and it gets anxious in cities and really all the time, but cities are where the poets are at, the academics and COOL PEOPLE that make me sick, so I [...]