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Jul 25
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τό καλόν, τό ἀληθές, τό ἀγαθόν (Transedentals)


The woman wears her skin 
like a bathrobe.
She stands in the middle 
of a golden field,
weeping fresh water. 

This is a story of the first sunrise --- of God's last genesis. 
This is the place where the itinerary of iteration comes to an end. 
This is what fire smells like without smoke. 
This is a catalog of everything for which I have ever prayed. 
This is what happens when you cremate the ghost. 

She stomps her foot. 
Angels rise from everything 
Are they angels? 
Is everything finally itself? 
Is everything finally Good?
 
Feb 10
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The Storm's Eye

Nov 30
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Cubism

‘"With your pictures you apparently want to arouse in us a feeling of having to swallow rope or drink kerosene.”
– Braque to Picasso

Maybe it’s as simple as this: 
Maybe God’s hundredth name is His face. 
I try to paint it on the moon, 
but I can’t reach far enough 
to fill His craterous, traitorous nose pores. 
My red paint drips, staining the earth 
with something other than blood. 
So instead, I sing, tone-deaf, into the dark
gauze of His wine-stained breath.

Maybe this is why they took a hammer 
to the sad Greek statues
in the inner courtyard, creating suburbs 
out of devotion to the world 
they would be buried beneath. 
Maybe they relegated themselves to the satellites 
of their own soul just to get a glimpse inside 
the mystery of the horizon.

As I stare at Guernica, I yell like a bull 
with his horns tangled in triangles:  
Sep 15
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At the Altar

Oh Lord of Windows, 
Oh Window, 
Oh Mirror with Drawn Curtains,  

maybe if I keep tapping, 
keep drumming my fingers on your altar, 
you’ll wake up. Maybe 

this rhythm will crack the stone
like it’s glass.
Maybe this beat will break

open, and an aria will pour out
from a metronome that’s forgotten  
it's a metronome and remembered 

it’s actually the throat
of everything vibrating, 
voicing an endless vowel. 

maybe cracks will appear in the moon as well 
and we will finally see the lightbulb
inside the lampshade.

 
May 10
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The Farmer's Market

my uncle grabbed a bag 
of fiddleheads, 
tender beginnings, 
at the farmer’s market, 
said he was going 
to fry them
with honey, pink-
peppercorn, and salt. 
the farmers bring dirt 
to Market Street, 
spread it over 
the concrete, like 
a memory. I can smell 
the black coffee, 
watered earth. 
sunlight seeps 
around the corner,
shining off the tents like 
they’re the towers 
of camelot. I remember 
when the vendors 
would hand me 
a little taste of whatever 
they’d brought 
to the city, plant 
a seed in my belly, 
watch me smile 
as it began to sprout. 
 
May 01
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Mixed Metaphors Chapter 1


A light mist was pouring in off the Caspian sea. I closed my click, sighing into the dark as I pulled on a yellow, wide-legged, vinyl jumpsuit. It was museum quality, a molecular recreation of something an obscure rock star had worn in the late 20th century. It’d cost me a week’s allowance. I ran a matching stick of lip-stain over my mouth, smirking into the mirror. The door to my room slid open. I grimaced at the soft buzzing noise it made as it shut behind me. My mother was asleep, and I doubted she cared enough to wake up. But my crypt of an apartment was stiflingly quiet, especially at one o’clock in the morning, and any small sound echoed.  
Mar 21
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Thunder and the Boat

we're lying,  
resplendent  
as corpses  
on the deck  
of our boat,  
staring into 
the folds of 
the universe's  
moth-eaten 
cloak, fingers 
stained pink  
from the cold.  
iconoclast 
could become 
a form of  
iconography 
as thunder cuts 
another hole 
in the sky.   
 
 
Mar 21
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Love Poem

I want to write a love poem to a volcano, 
but that would involve learning to love God
and I’m not quite ready to make peace 
with the war yet. I’m still fighting, still kissing, 
still dancing in the steam. we planted 
poppies last spring, made holes in the ground
dropped seeds into the heart of the earth.
sometimes I wonder If everything is already
red even before it catches fire. what if 
this is all part of God’s blood red plan what if 
God was speaking through Margret Thatcher
when she assured the free world that 
nuclear weapons actually make us safer, 
what if our missiles land in His palm?
If that’s the case, it’s not peace I want, but
to build my own empire under the covers 
as we learn to love the trembling ground.

 
Mar 21
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Existentialism

cut the string, swallow the sea, burn the boat. 
I never wanted to chronicle the apocalypse. 
Easter, Christ rose from the dead like a fresh 
loaf of bread. the East had it right, communion
should be taken with yeast. spring is a hot 
balloon. this is a needle, I’m holding a needle. 

God, Kierkegaard spake like Zarathustra, he
said we grow big in proportion to what we love. 
I love life, not You. I’m growing bigger than You, 
so big I’m going to explode. the sun is going 
to explode. the universe is going to explode. 
Sophia gives birth and becomes a virgin again. 

my Mama says God is Love. I wish I could love
Love like she loves Love. I’d swell and never 
stop swelling. she has a planet inside her, green
as a garden. but I’m fighting with a dying star. 
she read Narnia, not Nietzsche. she knows, 
not negates: surrender superman, superlatives.
Jan 11
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An Unraveling

I recently came across a translation of Euripedes’s Medea by David Kocas. It felt more like an encounter really, like I'd come across Medea herself: an icon in a barren church, a window into God’s abandoned feminine half, a woman burning with grief. Yes, Medea is a political play. Yes, it engages in a conversation around topics strikingly relevant to a modern mind: xenophobia, misogyny, distrust of intellectuals. Yes, even the characters seem reminiscent of modern tropes; a Gen Z-er might call Jason a manipulate, mansplain, manwhore. But at its heart, Euripides’s Medea is the story of a woman, a woman robbed of everything that, in Ancient Greece, constituted her womanhood: her home, her family, her husband. Medea is the story of a woman forced to reckon with the existential grief of having to redefine herself completely. 

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