a poem about a night — Who knew the stars would step aside to let you fall at my feet. Like you, I can also be a comet, like you, I can also burn the grey. I knew I could, but I never thought it would be as blinding as tonight’s. When it needs air to breathe it burns brighter and…

a poem — To be a dubious body balancing between duplexity, accepted within their space brought into a conversation of grand circumstances where my voice once not have been heard in another day and age. I remain within circles of modernity dressed in the norm employed where my anomaly becomes a spectacle of distraction without the exclusion from such gatherings…

a poem — I fall back to an old battlefield of beating red and white lights surrounded by skin veiled in sweat, the crowd aimlessly dancing in and out to the parade of beats. Our eyes pull us together. Her gaze is brilliant, but sad. Mine- powerful, yet nostalgic. Our bodies meet in the middle. The…

A poem — I watched her crawl to this dusty desert refuged from a land full of false stars and deafening expectations. She sheltered herself to sob and sit in the black mud and wonder at which point had led her to this. All she could hear was the broken record of liars and robbers, convincing her there…

A reflection on Swift’s short film “All Too Well” — Taylor Swift is a genius at creating music so specific, yet so relatable. I think the most compelling thing about watching her short film “All Too Well” was how it was too similar to my own experience with a relationship I had once, yet I could watch feeling okay and…

a love poem for this ghostly season — You are thunder, a slick talker, full of fleeting honey I long to drink. You’re just another man who tricks, but gives me the time of my life, so your swift disappearance comes as no surprise; one can only bottle lightning for so long. Luckily, mine gave me at least a night to watch as you wreak the…

A love poem for the ghostly season — Everywhere I go in this city they’re there. In the town square’s laughing bars, at the pumpkin patch’s never-ending maze, in the coffee shop’s aroma, the passenger seat in the drive to the mountains, the flashing signs that dress the busy streets. You take me somewhere old, but not you, you’re new. And it will be just…

a piece on the belief of change — The white painted door was as familiar as each week before. An invitation to meet the blood that raised the one I call a friend swept me here as adequately as the autumn’s breeze does the leaves. I was greeted with the warmth of faces I’ve spent years breaking bread…