Coulda

I feel like I was a writer
in the alternate life I left
behind in a Philly suburb.
I was in an MFA program
and drank black coffee.

As it is,
I have taken one writing class
and my TA tells me
writing all in lowercase
makes me look like an ass.

Seating Arrangements

I am half-assing
a million tiny things.
I want to whole-ass something,
really commit,
because there are no chairs
made for people like me,
and I'd really like to sit down.

Word Choice

"Hyperbaric chambers."
I don't know what the hell that means,
but it sounds impressive.

Sidewalks in the Proverbial Dark

There is too much fear in you;
why are you a thing made of fear?
Is your hair too flaxen?

Everyone Else is a David

All I am holding
is a pen or a paintbrush,
but I feel like I'm supposed to
re-create the Great Wall of China,
only bigger and better and with,
ya know, more pizazz?
I feel like Saul, I came in chosen
and somewhere along the line
my faith was shaken
and I built an altar
the size of a computer screen
and I sat, reflecting myself away
from my worries and potentials
until the whole world,
whose first name is Samuel,
told me I'd missed my chance.

The Secret Constant

The sky looks the same,
a constant of clouds and frame,
just more or less light.

Not To Feel Everything For Just One Day

I am the only one who can feel
all the molecules in the air,
I am the only one with eyes open
watching the molecules realigning,
twisting into bands, flexing and tightening
around every inch of flesh.
Barometric pressure.
I can't believe anyone calls me crazy.