Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up – Galatians 6:9 

she tread carefully through the dead and desolate
that crowded the streets lit by scented candles lined with graves
as people raked leaves into gutters not knowing the oak tree that
once sat in the middle of her yard was the place she had her first kiss
she fell from a branch she called theirs after reaching too far trying to save
a crow’s egg that became the bed sheets of when she fell a little too hard into love
her bleeding knees from falling were healed with alcohol from the medicine cabinet
but with her bleeding heart, she drank; carried the crosses
her own mother sculpted from the hollows of her cheeks
blood didn’t flow from her veins or pump from her heart but nicotine
she counted time on a watch she spun of copper thread; tried to cut with the knife
she found in the bottom drawer of his father’s dresser after he left the night she turned 16
she drowned in a sea of toxic paint from the unfinished walls in every gray room
she washed her clothes in; blended into skin till they saw her cemented into an existence
that told her she was alone with only the bandages from the times she tripped
from the heaviness of psychedelic memories to remind her
she walked around with bones made of the nickels she had to count in front of the
cash register to buy a pack of cigarettes for herself and a hot meal for the man
sitting outside the store in rags
she passed faith and mercy to broken bodies but carefully taped herself back
together each time she became the cracked crow’s egg she kept trying to save
she drank coffee to convince herself she was awake and lived off of burnt
book pages from when she lit a match made from her old oak tree to see at night
and locked herself into rusted keyholes; no one ever found the right words to fit
she whispered hallelujahs and held the definition of doxology close in her pocket
healed till the only scars left were from guitar strings she plucked with conviction
to the beat of a war drum that she heard outside her window every day and
the taxi cabs of mustard yellow asphyxiated the slumped shoulders of silhouettes
that walked on curbs painted with blood graffiti and stains from shuffling monotony
but she never doubted when she slept on the bench in the park she played in
and prayed in since she was three

that she couldn’t be fixed and saved; prayed a bleeding amen to make doubt of life OK

famine thinned bodies but she reaped a harvest the same day she remember to have faith



I traveled the world in rags
made of the paper bags
I sewed together from
the mistakes I made in life

the iris of each eyes starts the
the lines that trace across faces
of paths that people have taken
to journey and traverse broken landscapes
and strangers
to bleed into memoirs

but forgetting to write in
another line in the archive of my escapades
I’ve stayed in the street corner
rolling cigarettes of burnt book pages
breathing in the intoxicating pollution, poison
of the rushed world I’d long forgotten to discover

yet through the crowds of busy vagabonds
and shuffling feet
you took a moment and
stopped to reached out your hand and
pull me into another uncertainty

and with that single touch and smile
you saved me

gold dust and cuts

pale fingers traced the ripped
stitching of copper kites
petaled ribbons
and ropes of loose twigs
from a burning bush
that collapsed when
the sky cracked and clouds
gave in to the weight
of falling angels that burnt after
breaking cement
the saved and the damned made frail
by existing and living too heavily
the unsteady ground underneath our feet
became the ring that crumbled in your hand
into gold dust mixed with the
dirt it collected inside the cement
we solidified in fear of
making life real

we lost hope
then heaven broke

light bulbs

she lived a life of vacancy
and filled herself up
with lamp lights and graves
lining sidewalks
of ashtrays with dark edges
she carried watches and pistols
to count the times
she burnt and shot holes: mistakes
shredded blank paper into dust
after taping cracked alder twigs
she collected in jars of stained glass
from the cathedral windows
she threw rocks at
letting her legs fall through gaps
of fishing nets, bird cages
and regrets

she was a cognizant whisper
her world was a secret

petrichor (n). the pleasant smell of the earth after rain

sometimes the air tastes a little sweeter
after a drought
but dry spells aren’t common
and everything just tastes the same
with eyes closed I still know and can locate
each drop that falls on my arm and dissipates
the cold water trails lines and connects
goosebumps and hairs that stand up straight
and reminded me that the storm hasn’t stopped
maybe the sun will welcome us home
and bring us back from the deep cuts
we got from exchanging lightning
and the cries from deafening
thunder we spoke to each other with
but when everything fades to blue
I open my eyes to clear skies
and momentarily embrace the light
but the smell of the fresh earth
after a rain is absent and I’m lost
I never knew you thrived in and survived off
unpleasant weather
because like the storm you disappeared
so I beg for a hurricane
because at least then you would still be here


Our lives have always been a recital
but we never rehearsed enough to prepare
for months of discordant sounds
and out of tune notes played
on broken violins and snapped strings
that kept our lives tethered and in knots

music was always the secret language spoken
to escape the cacophony of the rest of the world
but a single mistake
in an impromptu performance
made every rhythm following off beat
and once mellifluous harmonies incomplete

at one point we conducted symphonies
and controlled our beating drums and hearts
but it’s hard to sing when voices have been lost
and all that can be done is stare into empty eyes and stages
and reminisce about the once euphonious melodies and memories
we had composed and lived

and I pray god will make something beautiful
out of our dissonance

syzygy (n). the alignment of celestial bodies

I believed for a moment fate painted the skies with stars
to stop and align in the midst of our lives
because maybe we were infinity
the halcyon days of bliss
made solar systems the landscapes of our existence
and celestial bodies acknowledged our innocence
but mistaken was I to believe that fate would be so kind
to extend the time planets could be frozen in their orbits
maybe it was the uncertainty of life
that made excitement the harbinger of each new aurora
but I pondered whether our wandering
in the galaxy of inconstancy
would last and I was afraid any moment could be our last
stars wrote cursive lines in the sky
that I had wanted to be the story of our future
but every eclipse is temporary
and the alignment of our bodies
in syzygy was never meant to be
in delusion I endured the ineffable struggle to comprehend
that separation had always been written in our veins and

the lines of constellations