Do You/Can You.

Do you

Can you

Sit down in silence?

Can you

Do you

Have the patience to comprehend?

Do you

Can you

exist when you aren’t performing?

Can you

Do you

Know who you are

even when your mouth is shut?

Can you do you?

Do you. Can you?


College Libraries.

I often think of knowledge as Rapunzel,

of college as the impenetrable tower,

and of myself as the lovestruck outsider,

begging her to let down her spines.

Each time I meet the Board of Wizards

that keep her in captivity,

They tell me that she must be fiercely guarded

Then, that they believe strongly in everyone’s eligibility to access her.

So I ask them why they keep the manual on how to storm the castle inside the castle,

Why there is a menacing, money-drinking dragon at every structure that looks like an entrance,

and the Board of Wizards,

which claims to be her foster parents

has never managed to give me

a satisfactory answer.


The Problem With Miracles

After the excessive drama,
the screaming, crying and the mess of the all-night,
after the echoes of the tongues of prayer so loud that they left your ears ringing for hours,
after all this, you are alone.
The buzz has worn off.
Your life returns to the regular,
the last embers of fireworks in your chest die,
and they die quickly.
Routine overshadows the ephemeron of the extraordinary,
the brief period of invincibility,
when you felt like you were capable of anything,
when you felt (like) God.
But now, you don’t know where the God in you went to,
and life is disappointing when devoid of explosions.

I regret your miraculous experience on your behalf.
It was like a too-bright light that obscured all the street lamps shining softly to guide you home.
It made you forget how to appreciate the complex beauty of a heartbeat,
or photosynthesis
or moonlight –
all the miracles that breathe quietly,
unaccompanied by your pastor’s screams of “Holy Ghost fire!”

The problem with miracles
is how easily they can make you forget
that you are one.

I was broken and I wrote and

I was broken and

I wrote and

I was pathetic about it, and

I whined, sniffed, groveled and

self-pitied my way to the last full-stop and

when it was done,

I found I had the stamina to keep going and

to want to live.

Nothing about my life changed, but

I had allowed myself to strip naked

in front of a mirror and

gave myself permission to stare, and

hate myself and

accept myself and

judge myself and

decide to love myself through it, not

in spite of it and

that made all the difference.