Election Day.

The soul of a nation
falls into the hands of millions
yet the soul of one conflicted man
perfectly fills out the space
of an individualized voting booth.
No love for one side or the other,
no prying eyes watching over his shoulder
should his decision slide in certain directions,
just him, a pen, a paper ballot
and all the excess baggage
burdening his heart.

This is a man who is no longer at peace
and in this private space he doesn’t need
armors of kindness and civility.
Still enwrapped in Foxtail 
and seething at Irresponsible Literature,
he can’t ignore how easy it still is
to be labeled the villain
despite his lived experience
of always seeming to be the one
to take the damage.
He can’t block out years of voices–
en dash ists and phobics,
even if they’re only in the strokes
of broad generalizations.
He can no longer look passed the reality
that all these echoes come
from the same damn side.
This is man who is no longer balanced.

So why not take a shot back at the world
like a sniper who never gets detected?
Why not blacken a box no one else will ever see?
Why not stand for himself
within the arena that affects him most,
his very own spirit?

It’s not like such an act of defiance would swing the results.
He’s looked at the fraction of one out of seventy million–
a pitifully small percentage, a miniscule price to pay.
He knows he can comfortably be a red dot
amidst a blue stronghold surrounded by red country
without sacrificing the world
and none would be the wiser.
So why not seize secret revenge
to level out his angers?
Is it not, in it’s own mathematical way,
the least destructive thing he could do?

For the power of a vote
lies not in affectation to elections
but in the silent declaration of
this is what I myself need for me right now.

Does that make it a sinfully selfish act?
Would that be something he could live with
in his soul?
Is it worth the potential damage to his reputation
if someone were to find out?
Well,
there’s a reason why the voting booth is private.

Thus, this now-resolute man
chooses which box to fill,
the ink solidifying permanence
so that the only thing left
is to surrender the ballot
to be recorded and tallied
along with all the weight
he’s shifted over.

A delicate cycle is imperative for word-laden laundry:
Clean the dirty with soap scented the devil’s tongue,
Wash away the regretful stains of sulfurous egg yolks,
And launder until white as the egg shells avoided.

You left me in Lexington to rot

so kiss my hind, man.

The sun sets,
and it feels like its
just for us.
Thunder rolls in
like an applause
for our bravery,
for making it through 
another day.
Blankets cover up
our bodies, 
legs intertwined,
arms splayed this way
and that.
“I would miss this
if I was dead”, I whisper
to only myself.
You sigh in your sleep,
like you know we’re
made for forever. 

At least three times a day
I spy
My own reflection
Passing by

I catch her there
in mirror view
Or in a window
Peering through

The girl in there 
is not my friend
She makes me cry
to twist and bend

She’s never made me
feel ok
She’s always lacking
in some way

Please tell me why
I hate her so? 
Perhaps that’s something
I should know

I never knew a forest so lush

With vines and bark entwined

The thicket floor a tangle

Looking to make purchase

Then spread and disperse.

When clouds swell above

Trees sway in their own converse

Until the thunder booms and

Hillsides quiver before settling

Into the rain.

A forest like this is a marvel

With its summons of firefly calls

Gathering us to protect this

Store of profuse creation

That kindles us all

Funny twist on the children’s book, “Goodnight Moon”.

In the room where the laundry’s never done,
And the mini fridge hums a tired song—

Goodnight, ramen cups,
Goodnight, cold pizza slice.
Goodnight, roommate’s snore,
And her boyfriend, I choose to ignore.

Goodnight, posters peeling,
Goodnight, tangled cords.
Goodnight, study notes
And late-night papers, I rewrote.

Goodnight, laundry pile
That’s grown too tall.
Goodnight, mystery stains
On the dorm room wall.

Goodnight, broken heater,
Goodnight, drafty door.
Goodnight, scary roaches—
I’m never sure what’s more.

Goodnight, noisy hallway,
Goodnight, party tunes.
Goodnight, shared bathroom
And forgotten loffahs too.

Goodnight, dorm life—
The chaos and charm.
Goodnight, small world—
With a big dorm-room heart.

nothing ventured
not much gained
therefore, I celebrate
accomplishments
lessons learned
tiny victories
subtleties I record for future examination
smiles, brevity of conversations
     infatuation versus fascination
idleness compared with the purpose of overcoming
excess yet lack since it’s impossible
life only yields what’s available
what’s reached for and obtained
sometimes the message is
      be still
today, tomorrow, so on
     until
revelation, in which subtleties become something more
I long for success

Wherever she has not been,
land is bare & dripping
chemicals.  Ground skews,
trees sag, bear & shrew
have fled, no beetle clicks.

Where she is soil crouches
thick & loamy, held by tree
roots like old arms, permafrost
keeps its secrets, frosty lips sealed,
reefs swell brown & blue with algae
like patina’d coins.

Where she is hums, rustles,
purrs & roars—giraffes sing
under moon, corn snake
creeps among leaves,
hyena lows above tall grass,
alligator bellows from bayou.

Where she sets out to, hard earth
trembles for her touch & milkweed
waits to be planted. All things green,
furry, feathered, scaled, petaled, chitined,
perch at edges of vision, ready to take over
at her slightest efforts—  

a wave of hand throwing seed,
a brow sweating over red hot
poker & bee balm, a heart
bleeding for every stem,
each body she cannot save.

Good thing there’s more than one of her.  

Whose woods these are I wish I knew
whose newborn scenes fill my eyes with wonder
and walk with me a while in waking dew
whose pools and shadows now cradle her
whose skies sleep on water’s smooth skin      blue  

and lying in these woods, how sweet she will be sleeping,
dreaming soft and slow in the arms of juniper and moss
far from her mazed fields and locust chaos
Oh, how well she will be fed by my weeping
and the scents of hive and wild berry                         seeping  

I could say these woods were meant for me
as they touched me with their sympathy
but who gave them and why, who could say
having walked nowhere like this way upon way
and happy now, her in these woods                here to stay  

day upon day, day upon remarkable day