Whatever happens
What are we doing? Embracing each other as we are? Holding onto each other for dear life? The answer is yes.
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Isn't the moon dark too
We now conclude this brief mental break with a word from/for our friends and body.
A beehive here inside my heart
I sat outside late one morning and saw a billion birds, now it's everyone's problem. Plus some advice for the shifting season, and a poem Molly sent me.
No strange bird sings alone
Learning to bring different birds close, use water wisely, and lose my mind a little each day to keep from losing it a lot at once. Plus here's some recently published poems.
My heart a bird's heart
Halfway through another year, I say a small prayer for your peace, try to notice what's changed and changing, and share two poems about (almost) touching.
This is the shape of the world
We only get so many hours on earth. A finch laid five eggs. I write my poems and try to spend my time wisely while we wait for the world to get good.
The burning world
On bearing witness to atrocity, (para)social death, fearless futures, and three poems by Krista Franklin, Faisal Mohyuddin, and Mathias Svalina.
I know the earth is laughing
There is despair here, audacity too, and hope beyond belief. Also a bunch of recently published poems.
I am writing with both hands
I seen a new bird and I talk to myself. No surprises, just suggestions, plus a poem by Franz Wright.
This we'd call a life
Remember, you're an animal. And one day, maybe, you'll be food.
When the world is flowers
I watched a bee die and did what I could. I listen to poets and give what I can. In this case it's two very short poems about possums.
We salvage ourselves
Recommendations for living. Also twelve questions, one bird, and two poems.
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These hands that have always held you
I begin a new decade overcome with love. Everything keeps on happening. One thousand hugs and gorgeous evenings. Also some new work in the world.
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Never ate so many stars
A benediction asking Everything, the only god I know, to take care of a friend I never held, and of me, and everyone else. Also a poem that haunts me, gently.
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If you go looking
It has come to my attention I love looking at birds, so now it's everyone's problem. Also a poem that sees something in everything, from the last winter I lived in Chicago.
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We drove into the sun
Let's say there is a place and you feel at home. Let's say you have a thing or two to learn before you get there. Let's say I wrote a poem. What then?
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In your own time
In four weeks every day will be wildly different. Come on, let me read you a poem.
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My people
Six weeks left in Chicago. Three times I got on the bus. The bus is a metaphor, except when it isn't. Plus a perfect poem by Charif Shanahan.
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Never stop talking about the sun
Happy Aries season! Here's some long, insane sentences on spring, all the bullshit, unspeakable fury and the struggle to be whole, not just good. Also I won a poetry contest, which was nice.
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I was every inch an animal
An incomplete catalog(ue) of what, exactly, the hell I think I've been doing. Plus I read you a poem about a living thing changing.
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Put your hand here on my heart
Treat yourself to a pomegranate and two poems—one by me, one by Pablo Neruda. You can tell which is which.
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Please bring strange things
Here. Have some poems and some prompts. For the practice. Who knows what will happen next.
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All sorts of funny thoughts
I sought comfort in a muppet movie but all I got was lost in an ontological labyrinth. Also here's a very sweet poem performed by a frog.
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Shadow season
Ghosts are everywhere but that's to be expected. I've read you two poems, if it helps. They're so good.