I’d agree if I wasn’t trying to be right.
At least I’m self-aware.


Do you ever wonder,
in a million voices
screaming at you;
why am I such a loser
piece of garbage?
And you know,
you know,
it’s coming from somewhere -
past, present,
Then you realize, 
it’s just one voice:
it’s just yours. 
Even as you write
you know
you know
you can never share this
because relatable trauma only,


The Process x River People

Settling my hand
on a bur oak’s 
bare chest. 
Flailing distantly 
for the giving reach
and feeling encouragement 
from limestone
crevices beneath -
I leap. 
Hints of living
where fish
swarm in silver darts
for lunch
and never hunger.
She holds enough.
They have two children
in thick, wool hats.
A transparent bond
below a howling dog’s
wounded voice
caroling softly 
across the bristling stones. 
More here!