My piece "in conversation with yet another therapist i stopped seeing" was announced as a finalist in the Lascaux Prize in Poetry competition. To rank in the top 16 out of 2000 is to realize that I may, in fact, be a poet. The work will be published later this year and I am STOKED.
when i saw the trumpeter blow / the horn, my jericho heart came down, / moved from flesh to fluid.
The world is made of string, /
all held together, tangled, tripping / though resting on quantum foam
I fell from a dock in the summer / split my hand open like a ripened fig
She never told me, but I knew
the way she slept in mango trees
As I struggle with yet another pressure migraine, I think fondly (okay, no so fondly) on the scarce few mornings in which I have woken up hungover already praying for death. So, please enjoy this completely silly poem about being young, drunk, and not knowing what the hell a glass of water is.
I felt a pinch in my palm:
a rosebud sprouted
from my life line.