Advice for Walking into the Forest

If you walk far enough
into any forest
there is a darkness
that you will come to,

and that darkness
knows well what it knows.

That the same darkness exists
inside of the same forest
inside of you.

The darkness
has the strange, wondrous
ability to ask you
without speaking,

how will you enter me?

You may think it is light
that absolves the darkness
but that is not so.

Light is but our loveliest way
of deferring the truth of darkness.

You may think it wise
to try to show the darkness
that you can outdark it
but this is not so,

for the darkness speaks
and has always spoken
with the same tongue
that lives in the deep hollow
of your mouth.

There is nothing really
but to sit with the darkness,
to listen to the pain
that exists within its shell,

that same pain
that in aching time may birth
a reverie,
or a war,
or a garden,
or a winter.

It is there
that an old language
is birthed into the light,

the light
where you will carry with you,
like a torch,
the darkness of you,
the darkness of everything.


day #9 of #nationalpoetrymonth | Cover image: Aruna Anoop

I Do Perhaps Maybe Truly Believe I Will Be Drunk on This Summer

I do perhaps maybe truly believe I will be drunk on this
summer. And this summer would be so lucky fuckin to be drunk
on me. For last summer was dry dry dry as that strange stuffed bear
that stares at me when I remember the long long halls of my high
school. Where I was not a valedictorian or not a prom king
and not a prom prince or not a mathlete but I suppose I kinda I was a poet.

I was a poet, and last summer so boring plus dry was definitely not no poet,
so it is time, I do believe I do for this summer to roll open to be this
wonderful summer sip for me to be something drunk upon. A king
in the sun, the sun within this king and I won’t know who is drunk
on who and who is where but I will be there and smiling high
perhaps on rooftops toppling over this Denver this city I bear

with—as it has borne with me and I love it this city that is a bear,
by which I think I mean that it has kept warm and torn this poet,
and by this poet I mean me if I did not make that clear in this high
brow pome you’ve rolled into like a bear in the mud in the warmth this
summer which I will cherish like a lover that returned and me drunk
of course I mean on the summer I mean and this summer where a king

will be made in wet grass beneath a summer sun wonderful king
wonderful thing because not last summer no last summer bear
with me I am in its warmth already and new again to this drunk
and this drunk is sober and sweet and clean and reserved for a poet
who knows it is okay to be drunk on a hope of a summer to come after this
year like trying to rest on the edge of the blade in a blender you’re high.

Look what I’m telling you is it’s true to be disoriented and true you’re high
and in that true truth you can be sober and it can be free from pain my king
my queen my fool my high priestess you see we’re free in moments this
summer I do perhaps maybe truly believe I will be drunk on this bear
what bear you’re high I’m free we’re free and who left the summer to a poet
who sits around with sestinas and sustains the systems of sobriety (drunk.)

We’ve been over this time and time and again and again I’m not drunk
drunk I’m drunk on what might be this summer this summer of a high
wind and a cool breeze and low draft and a newly born baby poem poet
poetry thinking drinking in the wind and sun and love and punch n drunking
some king who wears his seasons breezes here and there where his chest bear
sitting sippin pretty on an open world where people kiss and kiss and this.

This love has found me already sober and honest a king.
Bear with my drunken me, I don’t apologize for what I bear.
I do perhaps maybe truly believe I will be drunk on this


day #7 of #nationalpoetrymonth | Cover image: Buzz Anderson

Bostrom

If this is in fact a simulation,
it is a pretty beautiful one.

Here,
bees still form complex systems
of drones and queens,
nursery bees and undertakers,
all in the name of that sweet moment
of diving headfirst into
the perfect pollen.

            Here,
            there are thousands of porchlights
            lit up each night
            like a song for the safe voyage
            of walkers and dancers
            through the last breath of a long day.

                        Here,
                        where bells toll for pleasure
                        after centuries of having to keep
                        the time.

Here,
where friends hold hands
beneath a bridge in the Brooklyn
of the west.

            Here,
            where if you ask the internet nicely
            it will sing you gently to sleep.

                        Here,
                        where your lover
                        keeps interrupting your poetry
                        with her poetry
                        and your collective laughter
                        interrupts the both of you.

This is the where I wish to be in,
plugged in, dosed dizzy,
and fully, fully alive.


day #6 of #nationalpoetrymonth | Cover image: Rodion Kutsaev

Self-Portrait #1

This morning
my face was covered in hair.
I felt as if

I was
somehow more honest
in this feral state.

This afternoon
I shaved.
I watched my

hair fall to the
tile floor,

it felt like an autumn,
here in early spring.

Buried beneath my wilderness
was an also honest face I’d missed,
a me I’d known before.

I wish to be all of the forests
that I’ve grown
and laid rest to.

I suppose I’m walking through them
even now.


day #3 of #national poetry month | cover image: sensoryarthouse.com

Still Life of Furniture in a Room

Is there a true here to now?
How long is now allotted?

Could I be lost between the
walls of now, unknowingly?

Is here a place? Sounds find
shadowed corners and stay.

The furniture of yesterday
awakes before I do to settle
into its same crop circle of
carpet.

The same faces in
the popcorn ceiling
remain like old friends.

Place like a
still life of memory.

And what place am I?

What amalgamation
of memories?

I too am made of walls, after all.

I am admittedly carpeted appropriately
and windowed.

I am a room inside of a larger room undoubtedly,
and undoubtedly that bigger room is somewhat
the blueprint of the room I am.

But also, do I not wander?

This room I am in is quite large
from my vantage point.

There are vast halls within it
brimming with the life of other rooms,
lighting up the night with eyes like old lamps.

Each room a still life of its own memories,
formed in the shadow of the lamp-lit eyes of others.

So, what place shadows onto me?

Am I a bedroom/house/
street/neighborhood/
city/state/country?

How many shadows
have been placed upon me?

What light could I hope to provide in their dim?

Is there shine the right shine I wish to add to?

When you look upon me,
what place do you see?

Because when I look upon you,
I wish to see the place you have become
in spite of your place as well as in its resonance.

It is a rare room that hasn’t had furniture
brought in and out of it,

and it is a rarer room yet
that has not space enough for movement.

It is movement after all,
that allows us the great grace of becoming
more of the room that we hold
in the dearest chambers
of our hearts.


day 2 of #nationalpoetrymonth | cover image: steinart.no

False Spring

& who will you be when you leave the salt water behind?
when it drips off of you like a difficult year?
& what will you need to learn again?
will the restlessness wave over the pain?
will the sirens sink them both?

you carve the ransom note
out of clippings of photos from your old life,
you try to make the endings rhyme
but there’s no noticeable cadence of sugar
and there’s far too much epistrophe to lean on.

& will you call the fire department?
will you call the open wound that waits by the phone
to lick the salt off your dead skin?

& will you call anyone
when the world is less phones
& more traffic?

less spring
& more something else?

when I look at the palms
I’ve come to believe are my own
I can see the pruning start to smooth.


day 1 of #nationalpoetrymonth