A Prostration to the Human Condition

I have “messed up” so many times, I bore myself

with apologizes and I look up at the sky and laugh,

for I am not sorry anymore. I will not apologize 

any longer.

I will be honest to my emotions,

and if I mess up, I know you will be there to reflect

ugliness my way, and this is why the religion of

the Human Condition is superior. 

I will tell my truth and connect with those 

who subscribe to authenticity.

I will heed my desires with reason,

unless I cannot, and I will forgive myself

for making mistakes, for being imperfect.

I will not laugh awkwardly and look around when

I trip or fart, I will carry on. 

I will speak my poetry out loud because

that is the language I know how to communicate.

I will offend and praise and embarrass and love

and live shamelessly. I will grow old(er) and keep

my eyes open and my stress down. 

I will try, to the best of my ability, and that 

includes laziness. I will sleep longer than I should

when I need to. And I will question love and life

and death and think too much and eat too much and 

drink too much and dance too much and hurt myself

and kiss too hard, or too much.

I pray to the boundaries and the edges that I have yet to find,

and I will declare them here! As poetry!

And hello!

Let’s hold hands.



Curly People Tendrils

Like spaghetti, 

I eat too much when

I stare too long, 

desiring what is 

not mine to keep.

What story am I 

committed to?

And what causes


Specific to the day.

I am so jealous

of those who know.

Do they really know?

Do they really know?

Curly People tendrils,

you fall flat, little

quantum waves,

I am destined,

and cursed,

to be an Observer.


(Too Much) Space

What does it mean to die?

I will not know until I know.

They claim to know, but I cannot tell.

Until I can.

I promise you here I will tell you what I know

when I find out.

It will be an intimate moment between you and I,

as intimate as the Observer and me. 

Because I have come to accept these ways I am,

my dance with experience is unique.

I may only attract a few, but that is

of no consequence to me. 

Here, I will tell those of you who want to know,

something very personal.


I feel very close to death. 

It is not too surprising considering the words I read,

and therefore see.

Choices and trivialities make me sick to my stomach,

and I forget to breathe.

It takes much strength to come back and care,

to worry about what keeps me here,

my goals and my loves and reasons

to put one foot ahead of the other. 

You keep me grounded, 

by asking me questions and telling me

about yourself, authentically.

Music keeps me grounded,

and yoga, so that my body is awake.

Creativity keeps me balanced,

a spirit in a body,

could I not translate my soul into words without

precious fingertips? 

Giving life to an otherworldly language like

roots that make up a tree. 


When does a life come to fruition?

When is the process complete?

I feel too young to be at this realization,

have I gone too deep? 


So I sip another drink with you,

and talk about the sky and the moon,

and just laugh, because simplicity

is a lesson I need to learn. 


There is beauty in depth, but I fear too

deep I’ve gone, as if there is such a thing,

too much,

colliding with boundaries, flirting with edges,

going beyond where I have been before.

Does it always happen so fast?

Is it this fast for you?


I sit with those who speak as my soul reflection,

and we become infinite, the space between atoms

distancing further. Who is me and who is you? 

To what edge does my body end?

What constitutes a body?


He was cute, and he told me with a smirk,

pull back from there, do not go so far,

and I am increasingly surprised there are those 

who have travelled too far, along with me,

and I urge you, if you read this, be with me,

here or there, 

wherever you happen to be.






Zoom in:

And she’s crouched on the floor, clawing

her hands into thick thighs, bulbous skin,

young, the kind dying to be touched

not pulled.

The voice of her mind screaming silently,

jealousy becomes her. You are not this or

her. You are not, you are not, myopic labeling,

the kind that forms false identities.


Zoom out:

Who are you? Or rather, who do you want

to be?

Laughter becomes her and this is the moment

that is owned by us all, as we form bridges over

which Creation flows. Your hands are tied to my

feet tied to my hands. Yoga bodies form mandalas

in time,

through time.