Home

I can’t compose a personal, and clear definition of what home is. 

It isn’t on a street, it doesn’t have a lawn. 

I guess it’s the first sip of coffee every morning, or the stranger that says hello to me when I’m walking into class. 

It’s the man at the store that tells me everything is going to be okay. 

To me, home is when I am safe, and smiling. 

The Heart is a Planet

I counted thirty four white windows
I counted twenty four moon sticks
Twelve on either side of the planet
That is inside both you and I

The heart is a planet
The blood is a galaxy
And I suppose
The stars
Could either be blood cells
Or your freckles

Night Town, Night Owls

I like it 
When the sunlight drips onto your freckles

And you seem to make even the tulips smile

I’m headed down to the night town 

Down beneath the night owls

There’s a contrast between the red lights and

The break pedal 

I like it 

When your purple lips are pressed against floors of air 

And you don’t understand how beautiful

You are when you’re rushing 

I’m headed to the night town 

Beneath the night owls

There’s a contrast between what I say 

And what I mean

Lunch Alone

There is an untouched guidance
Beneath the fingernails
Of a bartender
In a flannel shirt

Do not think of a black
Night and lots of voices
There aren't any short skirts
Or screaming drink orders

Baby blue tile creates a back drop for the glass
Bottles lined along the wall
From the simple print of Effen Vodka 
To the detailed scripture
Of its grapes and vines; The bottle of red
On the other end of the shelf

There is a soft consistent
Drip of rainwater falling
Off the edge of the bumper to my car,
Parked in the lot

The brighter, yet lucid lights
Distract the dripping, and
Makes its way to the
Center of my glass

Shining a maroon port
Pomegranate juice and ice
Not a scripture on the bottle