at the end of the Earth
there is a dandelion plant
the corner of the sky rests on its bosom
our world relies on its strength

In a rare process called transdifferentiation, the turritopsis dohrnii 
(known as the immortal jellyfish) can, in response to physical danger, 
leap back to its first stage of life as a polyp. The born-again polyp 

i’m floating on my back with 
sunscreen spread along my nose and 
water lapping against my shoulders. 
i should be focusing on
how the sun is warming me from the outside — in or
how my friends are splashing water over our goosebumped flesh but 

The Sun is a greedy emperor, 
Shining its light across the Canyon, 
And evaporating drops of water. 
 
With the land so parched and no color than red, 
The beings must have knelt by now, right? 
No, there are a few that stand. 
 

Ocean wanders in to contemplate me

drafts a verse about my ankles in

twisting foam, scrambles the lines

and forgets. A mirror in the slick

afterthought of water on sand

where my feet sink in soft parchment

clouds, beneath shells and kelp

Under my umbrella,
I watch the clear drops descend.

They hurl, abiding gravity,
As they run, far away,
From the hands of the sky.

It makes sense for the clouds to darken,
To yowl in pain,
And to jolt fear across the land.

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

Was it the way the leaves fell,
streamlined, as I burst
bawling onto greenery,

or the first time sunlight peeked
through dark branches overhead—

or the reddish-purple skin
stretched over my sleeping body,
surrounded by fluid? What phantom

Let the Rain Keep Falling

O birthplace rain     I take what I can from

your mouth,    delivering myself

             from spring seeds,

wetting my tongue

                            with your resilience.

And you warm my skin           in segments,

                                                                                  SCENE 1

After Jericho Brown

Like a good fisherman, I read the water.

I can’t afford to miss a ripple in the current.

            Past and future form ripples in the current,

            whirling turned leaves in a merciless circle.

I could hear the waves crashing above me
as I dove into the deep, dark, sea.
I felt the coral so sharp,
as I saw my hand glazing over it.
There was silence everywhere,
yet at the same time, noise
sounded in all places.

in orchards of lemon trees
we tiptoe, under the hanging yellow fruit
in blue moonlight, we will stay until
orange light leads us inside

Egg-yolks blooming in serenity
baba’s palms turn upwards
black dirt falling on the sun.
The fruit of baba’s hands
covered in spines
twisted but not the wicked way
that punctures skin.
Serpentine limbs extend in search of
hands to hold

The West,
To me,
Is Capoeira.

Boundless
And filled with
Saudade.

It is
The macaws
Of the Amazon.
And the macaques
Of the tamarind trees.

In the West,
I string words together like
beads.

You ask me If I know the way back home from here. I sing the words, “yes, dear” back to you like I’m someone else. You say “alright” because you’ve got nothing else to say right now; I respect that. I keep my eyes on the road. I’m not quite sure where you’re looking at this point

Montana and Wyoming
The sprawling landscape of Yellowstone
Against towering mountains
Form a place that I’d never seen before
The animals and people you meet at pull offs
Are what make the experience an experience
Waiting for Old Faithful to burst

Yesterday, I took a walk.
I went through the park,
I passed by one empty cup,
two used napkins,
three cigarette butts.
I jaywalked across the street,
past the hardware store
and into the coffee shop.
I ordered a small latte,

Wet hair clings to my cheeks
salty from the rain
Drops like tears slide down my nose
as the gray of the sky peers down upon me
Barefoot in the grass
for a few moments
I forget about the life I am crushing below
With my eyes closed

Even when she was young, Sonya had never been afraid of the supernatural.

I’ve never understood why people are so disgusted
by silverfish.
I like the little guys.
They way they scurry around from place to place,
they’ve always got somewhere to be,
perhaps because they don’t like where they are.
I know the feeling.

I know
that when I die
I’ll sink into the soil
Be eaten by all the things I’ve eaten
Become the dirt for all to walk upon
I know that my thoughts are just neurons firing
That my heart is a collection of molecules
that happen to beat

cactus spines
pink flowers
my quiet is not
blurred signs at the edges of
interstate
when the clouds
circle at night
pack of dogs
i will my body
to be
prickly pear
humidity is saturation
saturation of patience

The world comes to life,
As a new day dawns;
The freeze is now over,
Frosty winter now gone.

The creatures all wake
From their deep sleep.
Now through the land
Does warmth truly seep.

Drop, drop went the rain
Wet ground is so slippery
Here comes green all over

Every day, I walk along the same road,
A path of work and play, the route I know.
Every day, I carry the same, tiring load,
A burden of hopes, fears, and woe.

“It’s your turn,” Addison grumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow she was planted into. Her eyes were crusted with sleep and she shifted her head over a little to avoid the drool puddle she had accumulated during the night.

 I get hit in the face... a lot. Dodge balls, basketballs, volleyballs, tennis balls, doors, walls, bird crap, baseball bats, rogue hands, flying sand, and just about anything else you can think of. Everything just seems to have an affinity for my face.

You say it makes no difference who I am
and how I choose to express it.
You’ll say this through clenched teeth.
You’ll say this and you’ll tell yourself
It’s better that I take my time -now-
better that I get it out of my system.

Hawk upon blue sky
Soaring above brook and spring
On the endless high