September 8-9th 2026 Don’t Litter Their Graves With Lilies I’d be less lonely on Mars than a convent. Guilt of indulgence propels my marred soul to join the monkhood as men know, silence relieves responsibility and I yearn to endure free will in asceticism. We may be the only species on Earth that inflicts suffering for attempted procreation or the only species on Earth that procreates to inflict suffering, depending on your definition of moral agency. Monasticism is fitting for a friend of prostitutes and non-believers, God and I have that in common. My grandfather is a freemason and an enigma Before I knew men, I was intended for one Irish Catholics loop through holes of exceptions Age says marriage is capitulation and history tells me to believe it. I pray for the other half of my soul in Vietnam that lives in between bodily sensation lack of regret gives her agency. The word love can’t describe what I’d give to protect her autonomy. I’m stuck at an interval, but I hear the birds singing sweetness overflows like a serotonin overdose on finding her against the Himalayan vista. I move in defiance crawl bare knees to the Vihara Decorate mothers’ graves in orchids red, swollen bulbs Sap filled like pus cavities I tell the little ones, if you grow used to dying guilt can never burn you to obedience. Quote from Ella: (August 27th) "There's capitalism, but at least there's love." August 26th 2026 Sink the ship. It will be a mess. Debris Deformed Unrecognizable Sea, You Were Loved The vessel name? "Perhaps," They say as it washes ashore. Not a compass Nor cartographer could predict it- but sinking ships have a knack for washing up where they're supposed to. August 24th, 2026 Loneliness Hides Under My Bed - It didn't feel like you left when you left. I keep hearing about you. Like children hear about closet creatures and night dwellers. You exist in words said I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough to save you from scary hypotheticals You both have a lot in common. Like hypotheticals, you don't like hiding in a box. I swear and promise I'll never again trust the cosmic know-it-all. Even when it's over. Like a child I wonder. The Lake (August 24th, 2026) Blue algae multiplied like hares on the wheat field I captured it but the photo was blurry you couldn't make out the dog in the distance the blue algae the sun dipping away. I morphed it in my head the way I wanted to see it. Started on 4/4/26 Finished on 6/15/26 We Aren't Them Anymore Dark water barelled black during a week of lying low beneath rocks and behind curtains. Bright headlights dared to reveal crimson faces of sweat. Dark blue water crashed and eroded boulders of prudence juvenility elapsed and lust stirred the pipe dream. Our instincts shut down as we became molecules unintelligent and primitive on an island where the moon told time and we told no one. Haiku 6/15/26 The doorway stands still always a night of silence bad dreams never stop. April 2026 Do You Doubt? Spring Won’t Come Snow falls and clots in April. frost glossed branches gleam as dusk settles over this range of density ground littered with icicle skeletons and aluminum cans cemeteries of what once dripped, fell, and shattered the lake sways an interpretive dance minute waves ripple ashore each minute To think! I once walked on water. woke to darkness slept the heavens s e t pink the ocean rode a synth oscillation she instructed: This. Write a poem of this. crows swarm the silver lining yet still- I hope still. November 2025 Regarding the Pain I can only try to imagine life That it’s not easy for you to carry ornate glass plates of compassion fatigue Neither of us seem to be able to look the other in the eye Head resting on a shoulder Chipped paint on a park bench in November I’m never going home again Feels wrong, like voyeurism The stench of a dirty old town Reinforcing the structured pillar rats under the feet intention was to muddle through life and explain to the passersby’s that I like a mind of spaciousness and an effort towards collective empathy but I’m a sinner lost in the space of the head for days forgotten birthdays and missed phone calls running along the subway platform expecting someone to push yeah its gonna be a cold winter that’s what everyone’s been saying rainwater is good for the hair and the child inside of me begs for snow November, 2025 There is an art to coughing up whitewash morning stomach acid aching on the 6 train to who knows land I can feel the weight of the city, the deeper we go the heavier it gets. I am a single loose string on a woven fabric of pure determination grit is loud, takes up the headspace to process the fact that we lost humanity to automobiles and glass offices, restaurants, cyberspace, cosmetic products, spacecraft, and enterprise. I cry at the disgrace. I cry for the ones I can't save August 2025 To Mom, Kamikaze Bees I’m sitting by the pool as you wade through a world that seems to be right where you want it. Thinking of phrases to describe you: A pillar of perseverance A novel of magnitude The force that makes me feel little again it was a summer of glue and habit of piecing together cracked porcelain. In the pool you place a finger to a drowning bee and I notice how his beetle friends and hummingbird neighbors hushed in admiration. your eyes filled with sympathy for the wings dried gently.