Category: Poetry

My brain—the mush, the unmolded flan with broken bits. The void between word and word unfolding into infinity.

My brain pieces together the wrong halves of idioms. It dips its hand into a bag of loose terms with forgotten meanings, building blocks from mismatched sets, feeling for sense.

My diminished brain claws at the air for mere seconds before giving up and surrendering to the arms of the lahar, like a tourist in a lazy river. The violent flow of outrage and publicity is deceivingly comforting. The world is on fire, don’t you dare forget. Now, have you given any thought to how you might want to accessorize for this season’s cataclysmic spectacle?

This tepid puddle of self-pity used to be a brilliant block of promising talent. It still glistens under the sun, but the effect is different now.

A distant star died,
But its light is still reaching
Some random planet.

When touched by falling drops,
leaves look like
fingers
regaining mobility.

With a little more rain
they could play
an invisible piano.

Love that cannot be
Is also love,
Trapped in the heart
Like a firefly in a glass jar.
In the night,
Under the covers,
You unveil it—
And it lights up the bed
(Your personal treasure cave)
With a faint blue tinge
Of bittersweet
Resignation.