An explanation for dreaming

Sometimes I have dreams that my dad didn’t really die
he comes back, and I see him
and I am so relieved for a moment.
Dreams are said to last for 8 seconds
but I sometimes see him for minutes at a time
sometimes I am staring at a skeleton
fighting for breath in a bed that will eventually swallow him whole
and other minutes are spent sleeplessly crazed
I speak to him, in a zen state
 high and displaced he hands me my drivers ed certification
and asks me why I never frame my achievements
"It’s 330 in the morning dad.." I utter, watching him absorb into the blue to red spectra in the corner of my eye.
There was once a point in time when I didn’t know what it felt like
to crave a certain way of looking at another person.
the dream is an image in distress
always stretching down blurry, spiraled staircases
I am always running
dizzy alongside the neatly trimmed hedges 
high off the scent of fresh bark chips and spring time
spinning so sick
to reach you
I chase the image 
until I awake.
Tell me,
Why didn’t you wake?

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I know you best
better than anyone
at night you lay your head on my pillow, forcing my eyelids open with your tears
begging me to stay awake with you.
I am so tired, I tell you.
But you scratch my past onto your wrists,
bleeding over me in the moonlight.
So I sit up, quickly,
yours; full attention. 

It is almost noon,
and this time you’re singing me sweet lullabies in my sleep
all I can do is toss and turn
But feel like I am going in the wrong direction.

"The wind has been teasing you", you laugh
it’s delicious; the cheer in your eyes as you watch my knees meeting with the floor
I am always gasping for air when I am around you.

you know I won’t let go, but tell me to hold on anyway,
as if i could forget,
as if i had the will-power
to unclasp you from the locket around my neck.
"you’re too shiny to look away from", I repeat.
Sometimes as if i am chanting

We rock, back and forth
spinning on an axis that does not belong to us
but knowing I cannot simply peel myself from the sun
you watch me melt, misting me as if to say 
At least I am going easy on you. 

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Where are you

The sidewalk bends around

our footsteps as we try

to run away from each other,

our maps sad with disappointment

we’ve lost our heads again

Lately I have found myself drinking from my pen

While what is left of us remains in piles

once well-kept secrets wrapped in red ribbon

we begin testing each other’s strength
untying the ribbon strand by strand until we unravel
to find disappointed exposure

I am sighing through tears like rain wiping windshields in a disastrous storm

A weak impersonation of you at your lowest

When you grabbed my hand my body went numb

I can be so careless sometimes
 As I tried to dive

off the expectations

and into just me

I let you slip through my fingers

That are now aching from your residue

Knotted stomach, shaky hands,
I am sighing into cups of coffee we once lived in

Our stomach ulcers dancing in front of my eyes

Our broken battle-ship secrets echoing in my ears

In hopes to stay a float
your memory teases me

I haven ridden home in silence a dozen times

I cannot count the missing pieces

I have chipped

on your heart

on this life-beating, raging robotic time machine

holding in the ingredient list to our existence

I cover what has been punctured
a proud solider saluting their home in agony

Darkness feels just like light this time of year
our reflections follow us through rooms like the chanting of evil laughter
and the mirror refuses to cease its taunting routine


We ride home in silence.
like you’ve said everything you had ever wanted to tell me

But I always cave

a block away from home, I am kissing your fingers one by one

By midnight my limbs soften like melting ice cream as you kiss me
 I am ready to declare love for your misplaced map, and closet full of shoulder pads.

My tongue can only dance on yours so sweetly

as you’d anchor my legs in ways that mattered.

I awake
with a black streaked face

alone in my lofty sigh.
 I remembered your sweater

beneath my bed

and cry into its scratchy wool.
And feel it tense up into me like an accidental hug
meant to assure
I am not the only thing you’ve left behind that still belongs to you.

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Internalized homophobia

Just a humble reminder to us
who were not instantly proud of ourselves
for realizing we are gay,

For a lot of us it was a really scary time 
But luckily time forces adaptation 

Now years after coming out,
being gay is normalcy
there is no certain way to “be” gay,
despite our original confusion
We are enough. Whatever we are.

These days we look into the mirror, usually smiling 
at the newer self, full of honesty— a pain stricken pin, plucking at raw truth

Through tears, we salute the past
respectfully placing our hands across our chests
as if it were dead skin that had once kept us warm,
but later we find it no longer serves the way it used to.

We will forever pick at the platter of original disappointments
like scabs we cannot escape
wanting to shed away what is hardest to forget. 
We are glow in the dark
and you only see us when you want to.

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Does high school make for such fun filled, joyous memories for so many    But provoke some to pull out their hair—strand by strand,
wipe their kissed lips of gin and tonic,
punching holes into the familiar reflection— panicking behind
any mirror, lamp, or wall too shallow to swallow it’s own sorrow.

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I Love how intimate TSA gets with me every time I visit them. Like old lovers we stare at each other, longing to get through, longing to know the truth. At first sight I am declaring my name, undressing slowly, removing my black jacket and shoes.
We enter into a foreign world.
I surrender with my hands up.
If you were deaf you would have seen my body laugh,” Take me”
but if you could read minds you might ask me how one remains calm.
“That’s great, carry on”, they say, hurrying me along like I wasn’t just waiting endlessly in line for that moment, where they look right through me. I rush toward my things and gather them, less tenderly than I had set them down, throwing them onto my shoulders like I’m simply slipping back into my identity.
But before I can wince away, I am stopped. Asked to turn around, as they press their gloved finger tips to my back, touching me without even feeling me. Looking for something other than what I have brought to the present moment. I throw on my coat once they brush me away, and without looking back more than once, I am whisked away into the sea of passports and brief cases.
Hesitantly I travel
If they too will remember our short but meaningful encounters.

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She laughs at my dreams but I dream about her laughter
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A preview to yesterdays band practice:)
Wrote this last night so it’s super roughhh

Band: Forever Sometimes
Vocals: Paige Bevando, Jordan Purkat
Drums: Chris, Bass: Tim

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Why did my mother 
innately construct 


to hate the smell of burnt wood
but love the crackling of spit fire
maybe it would be then
that I would have told you how much I love adventure,
how often I feel held back
not like the second grade
it’s worse this time

this time they are telling me the sky is limitless
that I could touch it if I wanted to
they’re feeding me their crumbs and asking me to bite politely.
they are teaching me how minute and insignificant my bones are to the mass of the galaxy we grow inside of but take little appreciation for.
like mother. Her construction.
 Constant promotion of better, life time able ism as an opportunity to surpass god in any triathlon
Maybe all of us are out of breath.
tired of apologizing for creating something that turned out to be less than perfect.

I guess I understand how the sky can grow foggy
and how little life can remain in something that was once so vibrant.
Why did she construct this tunnel vision?
Maybe it was the only blueprint she was given. 

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I figured I would record my heart, because how often do we allow ourselves to be open?

This is long. I feel like racheal maddow sometimes. Or an NPR person.

I like it.

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That twinge.

it’s what pulls the moon into the earth,

without completely allowing them to become one again

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When I first began my search for you,

I tried to find you at the bottom of a bottle.

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What is envy?

What is envy?
I wonder, as I smooth out the minute waves of my chestnut hair
peering down to the smooth, black buckles of her shoes.
What is envy?
I imagine it tastes better than my wonder bread sandwiches
I dream of confiscating my mother’s scissors, using them to chop
all of the beautiful locks that are swept underneath my pillow by coincidence at the annual summer sleepover

What is envy?
We wage over jump rope and foursquare.
it begins setting in the way the sun absorbs the floor’s pores of the backyard in summertime,
When the sun is shining, I can’t look away.
At night I trace the bend of her silhouette in a gymnastics leo,
vibrantly approving like the smile of everyone she has ever known.

What is envy?
When I start re-teaching myself the alphabet backwards,
so that the first letter of her name stays far away from my lips;
when I pretend we are kissing as we do back-flips alongside our biblical playground.
I tell her all the secrets except about the envy—growing green like forest sludge inside of me, spilling through my fingers like seeds I did not mean to plant.
I want to take it back, I am thinking
because sleep is impossible when you haven’t fixed what feels broken.
Our falling outs torturing my stomach into knotted love letters

What is envy?
Does it provoke your hand to trace my name in perfect cursive,
Does it compel you to listen to the droplets of my tears spilling through the phone
on nights I cannot sleep without you knowing I am sorry?
Sorry for the envy that cultivated too quickly, Sorry that your shadow was too beautiful for me not to look into.

What is envy?
When we line up in a school yard full of secrets we find ourselves still chasing.
The shrill of your laughter is smooth like notebook paper
We name the four corners of the playground and slip notes into each other’s pockets— notes we would someday iron out the creases of
to better decipher
how similar envy can be to desire.
The chanting high from jump rope, skipping the beat of my heart- like a drum that rang during the entire year of 3rd grade.

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I’m sipping on English breakfast tea, snacking on carrots, laying in bed studying astronomy, surrounded by candles, listen to moons
Who am I?
she sees flames
In my eyes
I’m not evil I swear.
The Catastrophe within her own panic
Is my relaxation

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In my mother’s kitchen

In my mother’s kitchen
we were happy, laughing, our bellies full of Ragu,
 other times we ached, from our sweet&sour bellies full of hurt.
6pm often provoked inadvertent anguish—the screech of spoons chipping away at the bottoms of porcelain plates
My mother’s hands smell of garlic in the fall,
 from mindlessly spinning meatballs for my father
who gazes critically at the cracks left in the cutting board
Absorbed and oblivious he watches her hands slide across a knife, carving into a block of cheese

My father teaches lessons inside out, like a shirt I’ve put on wrong
Talking over us at the table

In my mother’s kitchen,
Now silent underneath a moon at its brightest,
I saw clearly, I just didn’t want to
my secrets continued to harvest, clockwise on top of a lazy Susan
it would be years before I stopped spinning

It is all too familiar.
Any type of trigger sends me
through the pool of the backyard
sometimes.  I still feel like I am dripping from its water
onto the floor of my mother’s kitchen

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