open me as wide as the world is broken

they had asked me what, if anything, i could be sure of. they with their otherness, their sterile glass faces, and cold coffee ring eyes. in my greenness i responded in a thin voice. i wanted to be allowed to hold on to myself, to her. give my bones time to separate from the emptiness. sure of nothing save that i had lost everything my hands knew how to heal. everything for which my mind had known to reach. i am only sure there is an infinite amount of pain, a darkness which extends into a twilight of ten thousand small, developing hearts. i am only sure we are strung together by fate and that it will have to be love. love which tears us open to make room — in this vacant, impeccable blindness — for itself.

Cry for love

And so it came to settle into the flesh. Autumn warmth had been taught to neglect the nectarine sky, dark ivy gardens like iron mistakes, the softest for beheadings.

This had been coming for sometime but they never tell you how it will feel. Train tracks storming the cross center of the chest.

Fevered moth wings stirring up
the swell in your throat.
And the way you touch me, there and there and here,
rain moves into sunlight, wet stains upon your face
peels her teeth against the curtains, like pale eyelids eloping.

With you everything drips of descending, velvet stair cases for miles sinking to the bottom of the sea. The heels of gravity throwing lakes into stones, the dull pink tongues of gulls and we, always hungry.

If you part your lips enough that would be all you ever need to say.

forever spinning collar bones looking for a way
back into the shell of who I used to be.

the extension of all the words unspoken between us
thunder between the mountains and the sun.

Cry for daybreak.

Cry for love,
she is in the parlor room bleeding.

Eyes always too protruding. Hands around the air we breath. Nothing to keep us together. Nothing for an ending to embrace.

so you want to be a writer

I see a lot of writers are very concerned with the number of followers they have. I don’t want “followers” I want readers. If you read my work I am forever grateful to you for taking the time, that is the most precious thing to me. And I want writers who write — not for 5 minutes but for hours on end for the pure enjoyment of it, for the terrible challenge of it, the ones who dig into the discomfort and bring back their unique discoveries. I want more writers who are reading the things which they adore and getting inspired by all of life in real life. I want more people interested in the craft of their art, getting lost in the process, becoming so absorbed in doing their own thing that they forget all about whether or not it will be popular, acceptable, or perfect.

Art is so broad and so big. I think it helps to remember that more often. That our gifts and passions are boundless and that social media is just a small microcosm of a way to experience and express it. There are some things which make us feel wider than the sky, larger than life, full of immense possibility and strength. Those are the things I want to invite into my life, my work, my present and my future. What are you inviting in? Devoting yourself to? What do you want yourself to be, as an artist, as a human?


this is poetry for poets.

I was born a poet. I have been writing poems since I learned to write, it is in the dna. I like to say I am a poet’s poet, because I think a lot of what I write about is meant for other poets, because I understand them the most. I know their struggles and dreams and why it is vital for them to write no matter what. We are kindred. There aren’t that many of us and we have a unique adoration not just for the poetry itself but for the craft of poetry. We are so stupidly happy that poetry exists as a thing and we are drunk on it when we are in that kind of freedom zone. Poetry is a place we go and in that place we are more ourselves than anywhere else in our whole lives. The pacing of the lines, the dramatic and mysterious subjects, the way we massage and play with the meaning of the words. We were born like this. We don’t have to be convinced of the value of poetry. We live it. And so I think with my book (Luminae) one of the things I am most proud of is that it is not just a book of poems, it’s a collection of poetry for poets. I hope it serves poets truly well. I love us for honoring the beauty and power of the word in a world that seems, right now, hell bent on ruining that kind of honest expression.


poetry is

Poetry is a place where you believe that the enormous is housed within the infinitesimal. It is safety in the blindness, comfort in the uncertainty, an embrace within the startling. Poetry, if nothing else, is a passage. A way in.


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unheard of.

little bird, lift your eyes,
open your wings
against the sky,
make your mark.
call out your true, little bird.
free. wild. shivering.
only you.
only you.
only you.


the clock is blue
time is ice.
the butterflies are
creme and paper.
rust around the rim
of my mouth.
it takes a while
for the clicking to
the painter lays
down along
his brush. for good.
the writer is blue
her words are ice.
the hands are
falling away.
my body is
a clock.
is watching sea gulls
a weary ocean.

this day is
my hands.
i beg it
to stop.


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self destruct.

i’d have chosen you.
and taken your body
to my warm breast
the burn and the wreckage

flight by flight
wings spread of shallow watering dawn.
mouth, wrists, lungs worn

by the opalescent liquid pain.
i’d have chosen you

On Truth Before Writing

I realize it is more important to be true to something — to identify an underlying truth and pluck it from the shadows and bring it in to my presence, to lay bare before the experience of it. This is more important than ever writing anything. The writing will tangle up with one’s devotion to the truth. They will be drawn to each other because they always have been, they are of the same cloth. But the truth, the honor of it and the relentless desire for it, the burning for what is truly believed, must always come first. Otherwise the words have nothing to cling to.

private mind, alone turning


In mourning for the lives which no longer touch mine, and I no longer theirs. The transgressions I have made dribble backwards from my tongue and I am left to worry or to choose. The exhaustion of silence hangs vacant from the corners, I recede into the emptiness I cannot breathe. The women I see with their impressive wrinkles deepened into the skin, how I adore them in a way that is pregnant with grace — something I had been taught to hand over for the sake of the ascension of degradation. These are the ways we are changing, walking from summer into autumn, the parting light caught slimly between our teeth. This day, the quiet panic of any day falling away from January, is spread across stale breakfast toast and steeped in bitter English tea. I do not want promises, I do not want happiness, I do not want to be led to the river. At my fingertips, a slow keyboard.  At the tip of my memory, a screen.  Sunset becomes us, it sinks beneath the anxiety and melts away at the grinding of symphonic gears. Women. Machines. Soft lips and terrible steel beams, metal girders pressed against the heart… even still she beats. We do not mean to hold this much poison inside our bones but we mistake the cage for protection, rage for progress. How dulled this prismatic woman gazing out across a graying evening.  Does the cold in the winter moon sky beg or does she stoop a while to listen? Yellowed papers, red eclipse. Our time is thick though spilled across the kitchen floor.  Behold, I press my hands upon the breast of the mess we’ve made. We are surprised at the weight of this despair. That we can be so heavy and remain unseen.