Biography
My soul spills on paper like the tears of the widow who exhales sky many nights; she knows not how else to express her gratitude to exist amid the most curious bodies of darkness and of light.
Samples
My Brittle Pen: My heart hurts Very often. And the words scarcely leave my lips, They stay stiff at the very tip Of my numbed tongue, And I wonder how long I will be on this griddle, Right in the middle Of an urge and a question Like a crooked comma Dying amidst unforgiving words and idle hands, A splice of sighs And funeral processions. Out of kinship I too dress in carbon And stand as brittle as my pencil. Flying Sheep: The hue of the light morphs like my image in the mirror. Shape shifters like us blend into the wallpapers of rooms like these. I inhale skyscrapers, and my nose bleeds the heights. Now your tablecloths have stains from my prismatic flights. Will you courtesy, like Alice, in the dark? You told me entropy is stark, and disorder is my trademark. My atoms get entangled with the weather. In the wind, they're the most invisible feathers; and, in the soil, the flowers that always wither… as volatile as any concept or idea, falling apart like Pangea. Tectonic plates shiver when I melt into their bodies. I’m one to denature my own particles with my fevers, so I never forget to bring frozen thermometers. I know to make it seem better, regardless of my delusions. I have always lived near confusion, neighbors and other illusions. They are all as soluble as salt, so I just dissolve my assault, biting at the locks of those vaults. If I still grind my teeth in my sleep, I’ll just blame it on the flying sheep. A Ballad Titled Impermanence: I no longer need to wear the pieces of your voice as earrings that dangle on my lies because I found beauty in the dark of that hole in the ear of my soul, just a little bit, just enough to utter these words that I pierce through my eyelids and carry like birds, with a cageless gaze. My friend reminded me of a poem, a poem I really like, and had once collected in the hollows of a pale, bony back which you could only reach with your hands for a minute at a time, Nothing that was yours, nothing that was mine. I lay it on the bear road and made eye contact with a passing cat, He did not come my way and I felt his phantom weight on my lap. My neighbor overheard many talks at night and asked if I was fine, I told him I was, because I really was with my shoes by my side, the moon, and no cat. I was in pain, I was in love, and it would not last.
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