I think English words taste like pickles: crunchy on the outside with savory, meaty middles.
Spanish is like a Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass window, its colorful geometry sliding into place like the children’s game Rush Hour.
Speaking Arabic is like putting on gilded silk robes that I don’t deserve.
Hebrew diffuses through my veins, and Yiddish sends me spiralling into my ancestors.
When I sat in French class, I was able to peer into a manicured francophone antique store that enthralls me.
And when I preach my dreams of universal Esperanto, I feel the international interdependency of the future colliding with the frilly beauty of antiquity.
I was barely twelve when I sat on a train pouring words onto a page, words that sounded right, that fit right, that like singing nails resonated in my chest.
I was a silversmith working self-righteous metal into ornate rings around fingers black with mud.
Why do you enjoy reading
people’s screams that live in
Pillows that arent yours?
Is your pillow empty? (it’s not)
Are there screams that are especially beautiful?
And for that matter is there a scale?
or do we just “like” some people’s pain more than other’s or even our own?
Pillows are meant to capture sound
but for me i empty mine out
fun sized pain
spilling on the hardwood floor
you read all that i’ve got
and you sort it however you see fit
and pick and choose
what gets traded
and what gets kept.
a brick wall,
why is it that when I lean into you
like a brick wall you can support me
or cause my world to tumble down
brick by brick
like a brick wall
why is it that when I put my neck on your shoulder
it’s warm and comforting
it shouldn’t be
on a hot day.
why is it that on a hot day when it is dry and breathing is a chore
you make me so happy to just be there
to just enjoy
and you’re there
why is it that when I see you
I know you’re there
even you don’t really know if that’s true
why is it that when you smile
even when i scowl back at you
you still manage to make me happy
Thoughts lie on smooth stones
Water rushing across them
They erode in time
The head of a pin
covered in dark graphite
a mouse’s pencil
a light far away
slightly to far to reach
a path of lost dreams