Pre-lactoise soy milk

I draw my tongue from its sheath like a child drawing rainbows in the dirt of a baseball diamond, drool drawing from her mouth, spelling her name onto her brand new uniform.

My metaphors are rusty

I stretch a muscle riddled with bed soars

Mismatched words matchmissed together to draw a map back to my voice

Screaming from beneath a bog of anxiety and self loathing.

Black ooze bubbles ascending as great unheard choirs

"Punctuate"

"Anthropocene"

"Pre-lactoise soy milk"

Nonsense for nothingness blooming from my lips as I suffocate to the tune of pre-K

T-ball memories previously buried in a brain corner reserved for forgetting.

I can't breath but when I speak so I'm must do it loud.

I draw my tongue with great effort from the well of my imagination

Hoping

Praying

That when I reach the end of my rope

I'll find that voice.

Clear as a crystal the color of sky

Not sky we see

Sky felt

Tearing my arms to see my throat I succeed in digging up my deep wealth

What greets me is not clean or pretty or particularly good

It is alive

That's better than most

Porcelain Fire Hydrant

A faint little Nick-nack

Sitting on my father’s desk

Stolen from a Fire Station

One Halloween for no other reason

Than the story it would bring

A funny story for a funny toy

Untouched by kids afraid

Not of shattering its fragile frame

But disturbing the sacred dust

Gathered since before we knew life

It is more than a keepsake

He is more than his stories

It gathers dust

But its existence on the desk

Stands as the only gift self-given

The only present on Halloween

A surprise from his intoxicated alter ego

It gathers dust

But it still glows red

Every time it brushes your eye

It gathers dust

But his stories shift with age

Both for the storyteller

and his audience

I refuse to accept

That any day he will break

Fall off the desk

And shatter into porcelain pieces

I refuse to accept the inevitable

Yet lay awake at 3 AM

Thinking of the sound

The crack when that porcelain

Finally hits the floor

I will put him back together,

Glue in hand,

Back together until he is unrecognizable

Both in his physical form

And my memory

I will reattach his broken pieces

Until the glue dries and get peeled off my hands

But I will never replace him

Nor forget his small

Comical presence

On the desk at home

3 AM and the House is Empty

Have you ever been doing the dishes and held a knife in your hands for slightly longer than you needed to?

Have you ever been driving and wanted to close your eyes just to see what would happen?

Have you ever been somewhere really high up and felt yourself start to lean towards the edge?

These are just curiosities.

As long as they remain in your head, they can do you no harm.

The textbook definition calls them “Intrusive Thoughts”

There’s a textbook definition, everyone gets them and they’re perfectly normal

Have you ever thought something racist, homophobic, sexist, you-name-it - phobic

Of course you haven’t, you’re all good liberals

Of course you have, you’re all human

Floating somewhere in the back of your head is one of these little thoughts

Waiting for it to go unnoticed so it can slip back to the front of your mind

These are not curiosities

These are poison

The only thing you can do to poison

Is drain it

Slowly and painfully

Bottle it.

Categorize it

Memorize its labels so it can never hurt you again

Because the moment it infects your heart

It will do nothing but spread through those you love

Until you are left with nothing but hate

Have you ever thought about killing yourself?

Have you ever been lying in bed at 3 AM

felt something grab at the hollowness in your chest

Twisting your emptiness until it consumed you?

That is the working of the devil

You must not listen to the devil

For the moment you do he will begin talking

Softly at first, in a way that makes you forget the sound of your own voice

You see, this devil is no religious devil

He likes to go by his other names:

Common Sense, The Voice Of Reason

When the devil begins to whisper in your ear you must tell him no

You must tell him no as many times as you can

In as many different ways as you can

Tell him you’re beautiful

Tell him you have people who love you

Tell him you love yourself

Tell him these things so many times you start to believe them yourself

Keep fighting and never let the devil win

He’s playing a dirty game, but he’s playing it fair

This game won’t end until you close your eyes for good

When you shuffle off this mortal coil

That’s when he gets to check his boxes

Tally the results

I fought with the devil last night

It’s become our little nightly ritual

I stood in front of the mirror for a half hour

And refused to break eye contact

I knew that if I did

I might do something

And let the devil win

Keep fighting the devil

As long as there is air in your lungs

And fire in your blood

Never let him win

Never stop saying

No

Before I begin my poem

Before I begin my poem I’d just like to say I’m scared

I’m scared of where our country is going

And I’m scared of where I fit into it all

I’m scared of the black and white

Sideline tug of war we’re playing with Democracy

I’m scared of the black and white

Or rather the white and black

I’m scared of picking a side

Not of choosing the wrong one

But of seeing someone I love who did

I’m scared that we elected a reality TV star

To be the most powerful man in the country

I’m scared for my sister

That the most powerful man in the country

Makes her gender a joke

And her ambitions a quickly fading dream

Too distant to remember more than colors

Too laughable to remember more than sobs

I’m scared of a war started from tweets

Ending with a tiny orange thumb on a big red button

I’m scared of an enemy who hates me

For the choices of half of the population

Those who chose not to choose

Because they hate women more than injustice

I’m scared of talking politics with the wrong people

Because I don’t want them to hate me

I’m scared of the right people

Thinking I’m an idiot

I’m scared of coming out

To a world that’s asking for silence

Over vocalized pride

I’m scared of coming out to my dad

Who has less than my senior year to live

And his last thoughts of me being confusion

I’m scared of coming out to my dad

When my mom couldn’t understand

How someone could like both boys and girls

And still want a monogamous relationship

I’m scared of telling my mom what a threesome is

I’m scared of telling her that I’ve had one

And that it was fucking fun!

I’m scared of talking about my sexuality

When I barely have a grasp on my gender

How do you tell someone which way you swing

When you don’t what bat you’re holding?

How do I explain that some days I feel like a woman

And very rarely like a man

And mostly like a little boy

Who just pissed himself on his first date

Because he doesn’t know how to tell the girl across the table

That he’s loved her since the moment he first laid eyes on her

How do I even begin to think about who I am

When I’m still trying to parse out who you were?

When I’m kept awake at night thinking

Of the people you’re fucking

But more importantly

Those you’re having coffee with

Who will give you books to read

And tell you how lovely you are

In all the ways I could not

I’m scared I’m distracting myself with you

To keep my mind off the ticking clock

Of my father’s cancer

I’m scared of being the one to stand in front of everyone

And tell them all about what a great man he was

I’m scared that for the first time in my life

I will have run out of things to say

I’m scared you’ve all grown tired of my poem

I’m scared the beginning was too gimmicky

I’m scared that it was too repetitive

And that I don’t rhyme enough

I’m scared that when I do

You’re gunna hate that one too

So without further ado

The poem:

This poem is titled

For the Audience:

Thank you,

For making me feel safe

A Midwinter Night’s Dream

I dream each night of your lips

Moments from kissing

Skin touching and igniting fireworks

Putting the 4th of July to shame

With the thought of you

Soft and gentle at first

Rolling into each other

Reminders of sensations

Barely touching one another

A tango love song game of chicken

Waiting for the other to break

Show their love can't be contained

In the vibrating, explosive shell

Most people call the human body

I can't call you that, nor anything else

To call you art would be a joke

Art is available for anyone to see

But the way I view you is impossible

For the other 5,999,999,999 people to see

To call you a goddess would be an insult

The gods themselves couldn't

Capture your image in theirs

There isn't a word in the dictionary

That describes my feelings

For just the sound of your voice

The dam breaks and our lips embrace

Speaking in a thousand unknown languages

Seeking a way to communicate

Not love

But the death like flutter of the heart

The scream silenced deep inside my chest

Cutting at inner walls

Clawing at my flesh

When you pass through my thoughts

Reminding me that there has always

Only ever been one

That waiting for the Disney ending

Means losing the beginning and middle

My legs shake

Do not mistake this for nerves

They are simply on a different frequency

When they kiss at the ballet

Their legs extend to the heavens

Proving that no matter your training

Your limbs will always try

to whisper love's name in God's ear

Fingers grab hold

Skin, blankets, clothes, the bathroom sink

Anything capable of restraining

Myself from ripping my chest in two

Showing how my heart beats only for you

Pardon my sappy rhyme

My words become cliches

When you bite my lower lip

And moan love songs

Too secret for a melody

Though familiar enough

That I know what comes next

And how to sing along

I dream each night of your lips

I wake up each night

At just the hint of a smile

That, for me, is enough

A Song for my Grandfather

I will continue telling this story as many times as it takes

Until I can get it out of my head

This is the story of my grandfather’s death

And I will begin at the end

They heard the heavy breathing in the other room stop

A chorus of machines providing a

Funeral dirge

To see the body of a man

Resting peacefully for the first time in months

Not believing their own eyes

They grabbed a nurse from the hall

Poor son of a bitch

Still had the smell of med school on him

They acted surprised at

The answer they already knew

To the question they didn’t want to ask

You don’t know what someone will say

When you tell them their loved one has died

But you will find

Silence

Can be deafening

This is something you can not be taught

But you must learn

I pray none of you ever do

You will learn  that

There are two ways you can cry in public

You can find a quiet corner

No one can see

Sing your sorrow into a world without judgement

Or you can give up

Collapse where you stand

Rip your sorrow from your body

Through your eyes

Weep

Neither is more appropriate than the other

Neither is any easier

The diagnosis was brain cancer

Fuck that, right?

What is brain cancer to a god?

You can’t hurt a man who’s been through war

For the first operation they scanned his brain

A robot divided his personal supercomputer into a grid

A cross hatched abscess in a haystack

Divided horizontally and vertically

For another robot’s map

One with a metallic blade for an arm

That would find and remove his imminent death

The first operation, was unsuccessful

The second operation, unsuccessful

The third, unsuccessful

The fourth; Now this would be a man’s job

No machine could understand the human brain

This time we would go in and remove it by hand

This time we would be successful

This time we would have something to show

He came out of that fourth operation with nothing

Nothing but a question mark shaped scar

Framing the side of his face

Constantly asking the question

Why? Why? Why?

And I didn’t have an answer for him

I didn’t even understand the question

Not until they found a tumor in my father’s liver

Now I understand why he asked it

But I still don't have an answer

I use to wonder why I read books.

The impulse, I got.

It's a good deal easier

to cope

with no purpose for living

by reading stories

where purpose is handed to our hero

on the first page.

It's easy to ignore anxiety

when your best friend

is busy slaying dragons.

You don't have to think  

about what people think

when your narrator

tells you exactly what they think.

I didn't need to exist

because with the crack of a spine

I won't anymore.

With the crack of a spine

I would be no more than a shadow;

an audience

to a larger story.

One filled with purpose,

and absent of little boys

who failed to fill the page  

of a throwaway chapter

in someone else's book.

I've started reading again.

I've lost purpose,

feel like I'm standing in the middle

of entirely the wrong place.

I feel as if my happiness peaked;

not because I can't be that happy again,

but because I can never not be this sad again

I used to think I was the main character,

but I'm not even a supporting player,

my arc didn't interest the novelist

so he cut back what made it engaging

and gave it all away

to more promising figures

those who could survive

grow in the world that he made,

not just exist in it.

I lost the girl,

lost the kingdom,

lost the quest,

and there's no book  

that ends like mine

and ends with happy endings.

So I'll read yours,

and his,

and hers,  

and theirs,

and whoever's books I have to read.

Someone else can read my book

I've grown tired of the story.

what is Cancer?

when we first found out

i remembered hearing my brother say

what is Cancer?

i remembered

a chorus of “oh”s

everywhere I went

i remembered struggling

searching for a definition for my brother

“Cancer is the disease caused by an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells in a part of the body”

Cancer is the son of a bitch that wakes you up

by taking you to the curb and stomping on your head

Cancer turns the closest person in your life to a stranger

Cancer is spending time with someone you don’t have time for

because they’ve changed your definition of not having enough time

Cancer is getting a phone call your sophomore year

and hearing “they found a tumor in my liver”

after watching him bury his father

when they found a tumor in his brain

Cancer is death, Tucker

Cancer is hopelessness

Cancer is not leaving your bed for a week

and throwing up three times a day despite

not being the one with the Cancer

Cancer is everything you could possibly fear in life,

but until you can understand

fear is much scarier

when it appears on someone else’s face:

Cancer is curable,

And he’s almost out the other end

Construction Paper Owls

Sweet smell of a purple elmer’s glue stick,

Construction paper and googly eyes,

And a little boy

Asking why his owl

Is being pushed to the back.

Rows of perfectly constructed brown paper clones,

Each with a hint of personality all their own;

None as mismatched and out of uniform

As the little boy’s; who reads more than he talks

And imagines more than he writes.

Write little boy, write

Why does the owl who looks most likely to fly, sit in the back?

The biggest wings should beat down the wind in the front?

The sharpest beak should lead the dive bomb to prey?

The strongest owl should have friends

When the fifth graders get out of class,

They will jump as high as they can

And rip the art pieces off of the wall

Tearing their half an hour lifespan in two

You’ll see why the strongest owl sits in the back row

Why the strongest owl

Spends recess in the library reading his books

You will see how safe the strongest owl will be

At the top

Free from juvenile destruction

They will call you the six letter f-word

And throw apples at you in the hall

You will find notes in lockers

And hate in words

Words that will try and shake your confidence

They will twist your doubts against you

A slur to slash your joy and wonder

Read your books strongest owl

They can’t hurt you when you’re up so high

You will never have friends

When they think your passion is a joke

And your love is a weakness

But one day, and one day soon

They will be left alone with their insecurities

And you will be left alone

To fly