i write books of fluid poetry in my dreams,

notebooks of curling blue ink sold to the masses.

my fame is all secret smiles and hushed hellos;

the whole world doesn’t know my name, but some do.

colored glass stains the walls while

harmonious hymns stain my ears.

the cross looms and threatens me with damnation;

my eyes unfocus until god is a muddy haze.

sunsets paint wisconsin’s lakes a rich crimson;

sunrises blow wind into birds’ weary wings.

i let readiness wake me, not purpose.

momma flips flapjacks in the next room over.

big brothers bring cookies on birthday mornings.

streamers are strung in the halls with smiles all around,

momma sings happy birthday the loudest,

and poppa declines a slice of cake.

best friends crack their knuckles for your battles.

sugar-sweet migraines come from laughing too hard.

rarely does he let me win mario kart races,

but he always shows me a good time.

scratched records spin in my bedroom.

the warped sound doesn’t choke my thoughts,

but mine is a family of boisterous laughter.

i hear it in the living room and manage to smile.

i sit in the car and watch these rolling memories,

soft with static like an old film.

i watch until they’re hidden by hills, then

reach out and tuck them into my back pocket.

this life has been a series of sunbeams

hazy with monstrous, lurking depression.

turn the other cheek and count your blessings.

the city won’t let you forget where you’re from.