"my garden"
For Archana

A sunrise,
a squirrel,
a thought,
and you, too —
congregating 
through a shared
discovery: A point
in space, inviting,
to those willing
to wait...

I’ll meet you there. -#400

I wish I was a painter.
I could paint the life I never lived.

I wish I was a singer.
I could sing to you about the time we’ll never have.

I wish I was a writer.
I would

I wish I were a storyteller,
on duty to the world.

…

I wish either of us could know what I’ve got inside:
so many visions; so many lives

But I’m just a consumer
of other lives,

Other stories.
Other rhymes.

My name is TUNA: T-to-the-U-N. I used to make milkshakes on the weekends.

I speak for entropy.

I connect everything, if only by preserving nothing in transit.
I, your lover’s whisper in your ear and I, the roar of the most distant star.
Listen. What you hear in the silence is for you, and no one will hear it again.

It’s a novel idea to me that you might choose how to feel, that when you’re sad you should not do sad things, and when you’re lazy you should not do lazy things. That it might be possible to fight, to try to see how you might feel after you do the things you’re not in the mood for now, is strange, exciting, and ultimately foreign.

I guess that to do something against your nature requires a confidence or conviction in the thing… hard to come by these days.

I am astounded when poets tell me things about how I feel that I didn't know. Thoughts I believed to be such deeply private, lonely, and inscrutable pseudorandom blabber and you just had to go and show me that you knew about them first, and you saw them more beautiful than I could imagine.

Fuck therapists, why can’t we all be poets like Maya Angelou who burn the paint right off the black box?