Collecting Poems

I know I love you.
When I think your name,
I write poems.
I gather all of my poetry books
Compulsively arranging them
So I can easily touch the words. 
I collect pages like sticks
For my beaver dam
Sheltered by the energy of sharing.

I feel safe.
Protection rising from
Velocity of thoughts
That come from your pace.
Slowness.

I notice shame creeping.
Intense heart beating a
Prayer drum in my chest
The dryer tumbling
My favorite pair of blue jeans
Snug and Warm
Like our hellos.

I find myself sprinting
To the backdoors of my mind
Unlocking it for you
To crawl into our pasts and 
Lift each other up.
To shield you
So your bravery can
Rest a little longer.
To be the love poem
We've been searching for
In church thrift stores and white men
Still
We keep shopping. 

Today
We laugh over bottomless coffees
Meeting at places where they remember
Our names
Our orders
Letting us sit
Even when we want nothing and
They want nothing but
To let us be.

We travel to the corners of the mundane
Finding exquisite treasure
In the town's worst toast
Lugging library books and hand-me-downs
Leaving vegetables on the stoop.

We imagine the future. 
We dream of careers. 
Substitute teacher?
Bookshop keeper?
Lunch lady?
How else might we care?

We fear
Not getting the job
The hunt continuing -- noticing
The levels of our cups lowering
Our knowing "enough" and
Our readiness to say,
"No, thank you,"
When the world asks if
We want more.

BEFORE THE BASKETBALL GAME

drove to the top of the rich hill went into the tavern little tourism venture kill time like i don't live here strong fans goth spice girls bartells becoming cvs set up like i’m studying no surfing trying 123 space warm indoor breeze new types of voices out here ice in shaker like a baby rattle everyone solo on their phones you either have a friend or a date or a phone or props like a tower of books with the skinny pastel post-its sticking out like petals

years ago this was the weekend, dinosaur weather and a plotted route, what if i’d known i’d be orbiting mourning still trying to learn? today i closed my eyes in the church attic room curled to “what wants to come through” washed black dashes little white sneaking and considered a baby and other answers but everything ate itself and just fed 

things punctuate, the bar back’s freckles and kill bill shirt, his smile nod scanning, wanna say you’re not from here because his ease is as foreign as my nerves foreignly from here 

like when eyes close gulp for the world ben telling me about nata’s dates about his friend “with vibes” no i’m not of the people-world right now, this bar, red and black checks bottles lit up amber, dog with wings on the chalkboard, horses pulling rope across the budweiser mirror

“the kids love danger, it’s true. because they don’t really understand it?” scoot but my body can’t find it’s back “omg not dusting off the glasses!” in shrill hyena amelia badelia tremolo, the tye dye line cook brings her basket boat of fried food, memory of ben balancing on cement in tacoma over water

“in my mind she’s like 14 - she is youth - she’s a sweet summer child” freckles waves to someone across the horseshoe, his shift is over, then comes back to help, i give him many secret coins for that.what wants to come through? maroon, red, orange-yellow, a little sunny house, like elise’s dipped in grenadine.

holding my own throat at the bar, answers don't budge. every time you step out you risk being severed. tye dye line cook recycles white claws. maybe freckles went home. feel the fake wind lift my hair.

so nostalgic 
walking the aisles of TJs
with glycerin on the speakers
I remember you back in 8th grade
writhing to this song
in Katie Brook’s cavernous kitchen
while a half eaten cookie pizza 
lay splayed on the table
we’re romantics 
all of us
(do I get to declare that?)
but it’s all about the lighting

FOOL'S PARADISE

my keeper collects dark facts
shares them like garnets 
we’re presumed to want to hold  
but i just want them rolling rolling rolling 
away  

don’t want to hear about 
flesh off the bone 
or ticks or the
pervert killer

give me splashed effort, diamonds in each curl
snacks waiting in the shade 
the braided hands of friendship 
sharing work 

stop bothering me so i can be 
the one you cook for sing for 
but never think for worry for 
poison for plea for 

give me hollowed hazelnut shells 
rolling rolling rolling 
then crushed into the lava gravel 
before they reach
the sea 

Ehhhh.... god

Blinking diesel smoked static 

out from sleep

phone grope

that was a dream 

I was on a lawn by a fence

by the White House

Tara said I can't do it and pulled back

I thought fuck it 

walked forward with the thin crowd

that was it

I think we just wanted to witness -

we see you 

we're through with the obvious draining

hand to mouth discourse -

writing's for writers

I don't blame them.

Babak keeps posting things that won't

let him back in here,

like you'd post porn

on Facebook

for a ban and a break

a break isn't destructive.

Ice Breaker

 Ice Breaker

How would you thank

the person who built for you     say

a tiny house like an indoor gazebo

with a built-in table

and a built-in bed

just a little shorter than your body

all cut from sheets of plywood 

and every surface even the undersides

painted matte white

the color of your mother’s 

laundry room and the color and texture

you associate with bookshelves scrunched up 

with 3-ring plastic-covered binders for workplace 

motivational workshops

which is to say

an alarm rings in you of undeterminable danger

like sitting next to a wet ashtray

and the tiny house was given

as a gift

and also you can’t

give it back