the fifth of june

her hair is fanned out like the sun
she wears my dress, my swimsuit
lays in my towel
looks so peaceful
the lake so cold
we waded up to our hips
before running out
i still peer at her lips

“this song is going to make me cry when i get old”
she said
she the heroine of a 1920’s novel
i am a plot device

we eavesdrop on a boy and girl
he wears a violent shirt
she wears stripes

seat 17E

rush of circulating air
what i can see of the sky is a floating hazing azure
melting into cotton wisp cloads
my mouth is dry as is my skin
flying is never as bad
nor enjoyable as it seems
and when one awakes from the nap
no time has passed, like some odd dream
i cannot explain the thrill
when the ground becomes just a gap
far away and then slowly
at the end of your trip you fill
the holes, earth becomes real again

i do not sit with my family
instead i am in the exit row
the only ones of us together
my father, my youngest sister
i am going off to travel soon
others still have school
i am in the exit row
between an overweight man watching a movie
and a woman in a yellow sweater reading a novel
i am in the exit row
my grandfather is in the ground
we are all going home
i am in the exit row


have you felt that sense of loneliness?
of wandering back
home 1:47 in the morning
all limbs and misty eyes
walking miles
across the city at
night because you
had nothing better to do?

of driving somewhere
to see a half acquaintance
for a few minutes because it’s
the closest thing
you’ll get to
human contact?

I’ve walked to the
lake late at night
been told by cops that
I’m trespassing
only to walk back
sometime later into green grass parks where no one but me passes by

I’ve tripped on sidewalks
who feel the roots of trees
rebelling from their concrete oppression

been scared by a frog croak
watched a singular tabby cat cross the false suburban road the same time i did

some nights it is peaceful

others a few cars will rush by
carrying people my age off
hidden groves and dancing girls
sweet wine and sugared men

on entropy

what an odd feeling to know one is leaving
but not to have left yet
i walked on a path today littered with bottles and trash
and wondering do they feel stuck like myself?
do they wish they could leave their state of organization and move back into entropy
rejoin nature as they ought to

organic matter only means that which had carbon in it
i am organic matter
but does my matter matter?
are my atoms coalesced into meaning, or are they just atoms?
the rush that i feel is just dopamine
i take what i can glean from literatue and art
still flows in the ventricles of my heart

desperately holding to false information
i am no scientist
i am a mathematician
i love not the how, but the integrals of complicated functions
the sines and cosines of Fourier series
though they too have no inherent meaning

i do not know
what seems to have none

the trash on the road
which floats, is just the careless
nature of humanity

frowning and failing
to leave

from vita

do I dare tell her that her eyes are an hazel tree’s trunk?
that her soul is light and arcadian, so pure and naive?
her voice is the sound of a babbling brook, and her mind …

her mind is lavender blue
such a color that even the late night sky
gets jealous because her
every thought is so
entrancing, so idyllic and melancholy.
the rain pours harder when I’m with her
the sun stays up late to paint a pinky cloud in appreciation of her laughter

i ache for her
i want to taste her lips
to run my fingers through her hair
down her neck
to trace the hollows of her delicate collar bone

her very presence unnerves me
i cannot help looking at her whole being shines with the pale glow of the moon

we raced down the street
dashing in spring air to watch “the longest and most charming love letter in literature”

when will I see her
whom i cannot turn from
i long
tomorrow and tomorrow is too far away

and if you and her are the same—and only she will know
know that i have never desired as i do now
never seen violet, purple, lilac and thought solely of you
never been so flustered and enamored all at once

i spend an inordinate amount of time
just thinking of you

i am ridiculous
i am utterly infatuated
i would mock myself were i another person
alas it is i
tossed and whirled

i lament that you most likely do not care for me the way I do for you
ah well, if all is to fade
hear this
i think you are most ravishing
the most ravishing creature I have ever encountered


I can’t quite decide whether this should be a song or a poem, but I will leave that for a later time. Many of the lines reference Orlando by Virginia Woolf which was written to her lover, the poet Vita Sackville-West.

i brought you violets and blue bells
we walked through hazy paths
on soft dewy grass
i could not see anyone but you

your eyes are hazel, deep like the oak tree
a fox in the snow
on pineapple sighs
i could not hear anyone but you

could we skate over the frozen thames
and dance under the cold ice gleam?
i am no russian doll
and you no english noble

you and i swing in a periwinkle, lavender dream
fair dresses, floating desire and shimmering rings
sweet kisses abound but …
there’s too much going on, not enough in my head
all the words that need saying i cannot say them
you are lovely to behold

your smile has the grace of a queen
twirl your soft hair round my finger
say you’ll always remember
i could not bear anyone but you

could we skate over the frozen thames
and dance under the cold lunar lights?
you are no russian doll
and i no english noble

still you are lovely to behold

a solitary duet

standing still unmoving in wide azure
roots sitting on craggy rock
needles of dark green float on foamy salty
the pine calls out to the other
a lonesome wail and melancholy

sing a song of deforestaion, of rising oceans
of drastic changes

the second pine replies, “at least we are still here”
two remaining trees
to the remaining trees

and they, unaware of the forests
that are too far to see
or are the forests gone

the first pine wonders aloud
the second cries
and the wind gives no answer