Walking through Ithaca

Night as cold as in a glass bottle

And the exhilirant unsteady sick revelry of breathing

In the thing that shouldn’t be cracking in the bonfire all the

fumes.

I smelled, briskly, an apple pie or cinnamon tendrils of a warm family antithesis when I was walking on the sidewalk, alone, past

I burn like a ball of lead through the leaf-crusted air thinking about you while I walk home, and nobody suspects a thing

Nobody except the people in my textbooks who are too good at deduction

My Work

Throughout the development of this organic collection of poetry I will assign categories based on whatever I feel best captures the essences of certain clusters of poems, snippets, and thoughts. This might mean that, sometimes, there may be an ambiguous category of poems titled something seemingly incomprehensible and conceptual, like freshly wounded rimes, for example. I hope that these categorizations will create unique and potent showcases of particular emotions and experiences. Thanks for reading!

Photo: A snapshot from my favorite little shop on the planet in upstate NY: Mockingbird Paperie.

“My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.”
-Maya Angelou

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