I open the hallway closet and choose my weapon. I go for the broom and dustpan. I drag the broom...
A former Buddhist monk got me thinking that time is a horrifying illusion that we can transcend.
The way the wax makes love to the wane: this is the faithfulness you are held with.
We pass hoards, and mobs, and oceans of strangers everyday. Diverse, worldly, magnificent strangers; yet they remain nameless, anonymous; secondary characters in our stories.
I'm still sad about this chilling encounter.
I lowered the criteria for success. A lot. Try it!
Love, hatred, truth, elephants, homesickness, jealousy, God, and much more.
A poem on a Penn Station wall inspired my own poem about what I want, need, and hope for at this difficult moment.
A dream sparks confusion, wistfulness, and mystical possibility.
