writing poems a lot instead of blog posts.

such is life.

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when you think things in the city

When I am adjacent to

the Brooklyn Bridge

my body skyline

is shoulder – collarbone-

neck base –

collarbone – shoulder.

A Puerto Rican band nets

small catches of Spanish

words between hollow

gaps of my bones.

Once, I was convinced

of a million things.

Now, I imagine

that if I press my body

snug against the sky,

I’d lay a labryinth

of colors-

all the things I loved:

milk foam, lavendar smell,

crap pop songs,

the works.

When my fingers are

dripping against my leg

to the follow of a song,

the sun is past the stage,

and that’s exactly where

I find them:

The setting of every

gorgeous thing I tried

to describe,

or own -

but couldn't.