3 a.m.

When I think of October, I think of us.

When I think of November, I think of Arabella.

When I think of December, I think of a pale moon spilled milk glass over the countryside where every breath in stings my lungs.

When I think of January, I think that I never want winter to be over.

When I think of February, I think of getting older.

When I think of March, I think about how fast the year might go by.

When I think of April, I think of how the land shakes off the last remnants of snow to let new buds wake in warm sunlight.

When I think of May, I think of lilacs.

When I think of June, I think of how much I want it to be summer. And your birthday.

When I think of July, I think of my cousin and fireworks, staying up all night and eating Dominos.

When I think of August, I think of cicadas.

When I think of September, I think of how much I want the grossly hot summer to be over.

Leaving home has made me so terribly aware of all that I miss.

I knew it would, but I guess maybe I wasn’t quite ready for the punch of it.

X

Cicada spring,

not quite like cicada summer.

but it’s still 90 degrees,

so it might as well be.

Somehow it was meant to be,

me being here at this exact moment

with all those cicadas droning and flying

and dying

from the ground, from the molt,

three species mix and sound as one,

and I’m here too, letting them lull me,

watching them land on window screens,

cringing when one hits the windshield of the car,

plucking them from the stairs and the door.

It is different than cicada summer,

but still very much the same.

“What do cicadas mean to you?”

I don’t have an answer to that question.

Is it not enough to just like them as they are?

A fleeting life that’s set on one thing.

Do it and then perish,

and then wait once again for your offspring

to do it all over again.

The ones at home I rarely saw cause

summer cicadas are hard to find.

But these are everywhere and I feel spoiled.

I don’t understand how people don’t enjoy this,

the sheer magnitude of their numbers and their

whirring call that takes up the background.

Nope, I just don’t get how no one else is enjoying this but me.

Professional Melancholic

10 poems included in the Professional Melancholic collection that I wrote for my final portfolio in Manuscript Writing class for Winter 2016

sweet drone

It took me seven months
To feel a hint of ease
At having to be 800 miles from home
In a new “home”

It was the cicadas, with their sudden rise
From the ground, their litter of skins and sheer numbers
All in chorus, those three species, only subtle colors and sounds to mark their differences

It was the twenty-five minute drive to Manassas
Just for some donuts
For that ride through that city to make it feel like I was back on my own ground
For just a moment
Cause that’s how it sort of looks
Endless trees and a shitty road and few buildings in between

It was turning on the AC since it reached 90 outside
Being able to sleep in my preferred deep freeze
That certain plastic-must smell that lets me know summer is within reach, just a few more weeks

There will be other things, I’m sure, but I’m still waiting
Chomping at the bit
Like a starved dog who got a whiff of meat on the back of a humid breeze

Gotta give it more than seven months
I know.

shut up

noise noise noise noise noise

on the streets and

in the building

from the strangers and the neighbors

is every day national make noise day?

cops/fire engines/ambulances and

drunks and druggies and seniors,

it just never seems to end.

move this move that yell slam doors

rev your engines step on the gas

drop this hit this throw this

can you people just learn some respect?

how am I ever going to adjust to all the

damn noise?

little

Snake skins and

cicada shells

both in jars next to the

fortune cookie papers.

Pieces of home I collected

just to miss.

home

turns out

there are a lot of smells

from home that I miss –

dark diesel on a winter morning,

animal fat clinging to cement and wooden walls,

sunshine heated into a cat’s fur,

laundry taken from the line in spring,

chicken in the oven for supper,

the central air conditioning on a sweltering summer night,

river mud sticking to the wind,

and that subtle sweetness that seeps from the forest.

yeah. these are things i dont think about until im alone,

driving to work, muddling along with the traffic.

For Earth Day

And the fresh spring buds on the cottonwood tree
looked like glowing yellow fairy lights
against the pale blue afternoon sky
as I stared upside down at the branches
from my spot on the grass.

Analysis of the Hero’s journey in ‘Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home’

A traditional format analysis of the hero’s journey in ‘Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home’.

Analysis of the Hero’s Journey in ‘The Last of Us’

A non-traditional format analysis of the hero’s journey in ‘The Last of Us’ video game.

Pauses

I could write a whole bunch about loss, but there would be nothing in it you haven’t heard before. But I still think writing about it is important to the individual, since the heartache felt is strong and real, and sometimes the only way some of us can cope is through typed words.