i was greeted by the moon herself in your driveway.
she left my palms damp with slobber in her wake
and i stood outside your front door,
feeling like a fraction, small but rightfully so
and across the street, adult chatter and laughter
This morning I listened to an interview
with poet Ada Limón. She spoke about
epiphanies and didactic endings
and how sometimes a poet must surrender
to the discomfort of unknowing.
How sometimes it is best to listen
to the world’s echoing heartbeat
I wish I had trauma that I could spin into a story,
a story that would grip your thoughts tighter than leather binding,
Something I could rip to shreds, over-analyze in the margins,
sew back together, and send off to the publisher before I tear myself apart.
The sun went missing today.
There were no rivers of blood or plagues of locusts,
first-born children did not fall ill, nor did frogs descend on the cities.
It was quiet.
The black hole stood stagnant.
We could only watch and wait.
PART I: AI is created
I think God made you and me out of binary code You call me an enigma,
But I do not speak your language. You would be the 1’s.
Always at the top
Perfect Aryan halo on your head I would be the 0’s.
(1) every puzzle has an empty space, and a piece that never seems to fit
on the train in november I found
a duality called us (antithesis as mirror) sorry it is colder here than I remembered
and I am tired
of being called a dreamer
Are these the pangs of birth or the aftershocks of death?
What awaits me beyond this shore?
And even now when legs and feet have failed me
The sand shows trails, like serpents, of this fragility
I bleed: the gravel grinds my skin and ﬂesh
Graze the lips with concrete and floss with blood
Wintergreen and sharp, pennies in the mouth that
Rattle like bicycle wheels down long hills.
Bandaid sticky, adhesive concealer that fortifies a face
To face the world dripping with bruises, salt, and the momentum