yet to be found…
signs of (life)
the potential for a soul.
but, yet to be found
sole creator of (life).
humans have long been
bound to solid ground.
ancestors, transcendental.
signs of (light),
divinity, and anything like it.
bargaining, from the beginning.
lost, bone density,
fouled evolutionary psychology,
braced for impact
nevermore ready.
humans, as humanitarians
over zealous
can’t coexist
dismiss fine print on packaging
destroys (life)
and anything like it.


Care Packages

looks up, to overcast
partly cloudy.
sends thoughts, covered in feeling
brown paper,
wrinkled when wrapped.
with love,
pieces and parts.
heart strings.
small things.
what i wouldn’t give,
to let you open me (up).
your voice
stamps, tracks, traces
something we’ve both touched.
you (in me).
only you.
packages and posts,
sent with love.


Storm pt.2

“Something wicked this way comes”, he adjusted his glasses,
going back to lecture notes.

I confessed to publishing poetry,
More than one hundred pages,
(on) how to disarm your enemy.

We lack harmony; he expressed his great regret with wife number three.
Apparently it’s impossible to overthink
someone’s emotions,
but she did this constantly.

“You remind me of my daughter”, he exhales, deeply distraught.
This is when I begin to end.

Nothing hurts as bad as love.
I listen, mostly for comfort, I explain I no longer talk to my father.

We silently agree not to become family, he asks me about forgiving men…storm start to roll in.
Shapes what we know of one another,
the heavy skies. Moments in motion.

It’s like the heavens are weeping,
the birds hush their wings.
Unsettled in their nests.