CONTEXT /// 1) a certified annoyance, naive at best, fumbling self-conscious with her cellphone, aware that it is not a real camera, aware that she is not a real artist. . 2) a spray of innocent petals, rainkissed, growing nonchalant the way that flowers do, among the creeping invasive ivy, among the private property signs. . 3) it was the end (take your pick: of spring / of her senior term / of the day. all romantic options.) . 4) a busy road, one without sidewalks, winding into the cliffs one blind switchback after another, down come the fastfastfast locals in their fancy cars, down come the shutupshutupshutup vicious thoughts: blood in my cheeks, to be caught, stupid, like some kind of sentimental fool. . 5) there's no good reason. you learned in college that it is not enough to draw pretty things and accurate. you must either pervert them or politicize them, that is, use them to say something true about the world. nobody cares nobody cares nobody cares / show them your scrapped suicide notes if you want to be a real poet, but you must never admit that they were scrapped. did a tire spit mud on those flowers you were looking at? no? then what's the point? /// #ephemerosarchive #poetry #creativewriting #poetsofinstagram #creativewritersofinstagram #writersofinstagram (hello everyone, i've been very much awol, but now i'm back on my bullshit, hurray) https://www.instagram.com/p/Brjl7BOBhNz/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=9njpwsnfaak7

i dreamt about sneaking into that old big church so that i could pray -- without being caught? without meeting a christian who will say: praise god, before me is a redemption story waiting to happen . i still keep those old songs that pulled tears up from within me like sacramental wine, when the spirit moved in saltwater safe upon our cheeks. the ocean was only ever called holy when it was something we could walk on.

i tried to record the crash of water on the rocks below us. tried to kiss the spray of white sea water hissing into my face. what else would i know? love's a red sky morning or night. the tide was too high to reveal the shipwreck but still the bay was boiling. what would it look like to be set ablaze at sea? flames to roll in waves to match the ocean. did it happen at night? was it red? have we been sailing this entire time? omens elude me. i keep expecting us to toss each other against the shore. what else? have you ever offended the ocean? she stole the videos back, tide grabbed my bag in california. maybe it was the only way she could be stilled. still. what else? take warning or delight? would i know?

COASTLINE /// sound of it: the crash of earth's robes in the spin and dance of gravity, afterimage of the moon, the follow through, inertia, spits up the swirl of sand in golden strokes to rival all those old italian masters. i still trace the pattern of it on my memory, the ribbons of reflected water light on cavern walls. to attempt an explanation of the wild and the reckless-- the way the sky meets face in solid sheets of rain. the smell: sharp and ancient like memory of songs belted out in megachurch auditoriums. how to explain the way a spirit is torn? (my god my god why have you) but the gulls carried little ribbons of my heart in the forlorn cries that left their beaks /// #ephemerosarchive#poetry#poetsofinstagram#memory#latergram#writersofinstagram https://www.instagram.com/p/BnCvUsjh2x7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1jpfe78yxw7di

HISTORIES /// breathe. soft sand and storied stones bind time. see myself in that scatter land between tides. surrendered to the sculpting of the sea. /// #ephemerosarchive#poetry#poetsofinstagram#memory#latergram#writersofinstagram

but the way i imagined it, the clouds were always sunset: cold enough to catch the light and scatter it back in brilliance, heavy in their weightlessness, intangible, dense, and porous. maybe a sparrow could make its way through. /// #ephemerosarchive#poetry#poetsofinstagram#memory#latergram#writersofinstagram

EXAGGERATED /// about me: don't listen to that one she screams when she remembers the snake look in his eyes. there's a bruise in her every cringing movement. what could be wrong with her. wish she could be normal. she exaggerates. there was never a wolf come to eat the flock. i never saw it. must have never happened. i would have known. why is she limping. about myself: i want to be buried in the soil for a good long time. i want to emerge as something singular. i've felt the tearing fall for years. this is gravity. out of my hands now. sometimes i want no memories. it would be easier than wondering about the exaggerated gaps. /// #ephemerosarchive#poetry#poetsofinstagram#memory#latergram#writersofinstagram

SAME OLD // digging through piles of old dusty pixels to find the same old: a preoccupation with flowers, the struggle to get that old darn focus just right, and, in every june, the lilacs, soft purple, partially open, delicate and quiet in their sweetness. i'm cringing at the old selfies, the bad hair, the worse clothing. but he laughs and calls me cute. but that scarf, that scarf, what was i thinking? it's a hideous scarf. he says i can pull it off. he says that he can see the parts of me i kept hidden for so many years i did not have the words to speak, see the glittering truths that make me myself-- peeking through the messy bob, the regrettable eyeliner, that pink-purple-blue scarf. laugh and concede the point. and after all i'm the same old. the way i've changed, shifted, found new ground to stand on; none of this is a transformation so much as an unveiling. the one who cried at every turn can smile just as easily; either way tears are native to my face. they called me crybaby, too sensitive. he calls me cute. i call me delicate and quiet in my sweetness. // #ephemerosarchive#poetry#poetsofinstagram#latergram#memory#ephemeral