If fusty galaxies twirl like Shakespearian poetry,
is astrology a tragedy or a comedy?

Are there clusters of tumbling uppercase in outer space,
the remnants of conceit metaphors that broke up like meteors?

My scattered universe is full of orphaned verse.
Why do terse alien names all have hyphens?

Quatrains swirl in fiery hues across the ecliptic plane,
and sonnets streak by, like sparkling comets.

Argh! Where’s a pencil - too late - the thought’s gone.
Ever lose something essential - cause you couldn’t find a pencil?

It’s ok though, it’s not just me and not just you.
Black holes are swallowing Haiku too.
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Songs for this:
Hypnotized by Fleetwood Mac
Theme for a **** Beach by The B-52's
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I saw a line with something like, “universe of orphaned verse,” in a poem a few days ago. The idea of celestial words rhyming with writing terms ‘mused’ me. I’ve been looking for the author to credit them (hello, computer searches). If you know the guilty party, please let me know.
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*No, this is NOT a sonnet, it’s just the name

Wipe your tears
I wasn't meant to be here forever.

Did I say I love you
or was it unuttered
too feeble to be heard!

Maybe you knew it in the small moments
our eyes met
you could read my emotions
in the chance glance
I cast into that ocean
and you caught its fleeting shadow.

Do your tears betray that love
of two souls on a voyage
in turbulence and calmness
in light and in darkness
building nests on the way
where you showed the child the sky
to fly away one day.

You too  never made
I love you audible
but I heard them in your lips' quiver
like a prayer.

Vintage Chanel lives rent free in my mind
the colors are deep, subtle and magical.
Over time, the originally soft textures,
become luscious, like a lover's caressing touch.

In college, you dress down,
you want to blend in, not stand out
gods forbid you flag entitlement
and draw envy's barbed compliments.

The simple styles bear the twin burdens
of camouflage and practicality.

In Paris, fashion can be capricious,
but elegance is a silent conversation,
with its own intricate vocabulary in drape,
line, fabric and in painstaking choice.

In places where fashion matters - Paris, Manhattan, the Hamptons,
it can signal position, the way uniforms signal authority everywhere.

A splash of fashion can not only have a fabulous effect
on how its wearer feels, it can tell important stories.

I’m told that, in back rooms, where fortunes are awarded or lost,
fashion can announce arrival, rank, and intent.
It can whisper new wealth, in upstart display
or a threadbare, silent duel with mounting debt
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Songs for this:
The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby & The Range
Read Between the Lines by The Bingtones

Sometimes
Give the poems in your head
Some rest.

Don't write them on,
Write them off.

Internally arrange a funeral
Bid them farewell
Give them an unceremonious burial.

The rising poem won't complain
They know well your anguish and pain.

The labour you go through birthing them
Shape their body, give a name
They would understand.

Failed poems are not as arrogant
As the birthed ones.

They too are weary pounding your head
Making holes in your soul
They would rather rest than be born.

Sometimes
They deserve rest.

Let them float away to a place
Where they find peace
And will not be missed.

The one umbrella I give her
and get drenched in the rain.

My eyes are not dry
as rain bathes my eyelashes
makes me cry in joy.

I'm happy she's not wet
as it pours on pitter patter
pitter patter.

In the rain I find the might of love
and in the music of the pour
I hear my heart burning
in the light of sound.

Being back home, in my childhood room is like climbing into a time capsule. I left for college quickly, back in ‘21 and I’ve only been back here once, briefly.

My closets are still full of my old high school clothes and there are shelves that line the upper walls of my room with maybe a hundred “Disney Princess” collectable statues (my favorite is Ariel).

I have one wall space behind my bathroom door that has a hundred yellow stickies on it - reminders of old assignments and quotes like, “Do you hate drama or create drama?” and “Imagine your future.”

Everything seems carbon dated. It gives me an impeccable, knife-like sense of ennui. I want to cherish it all or burn it all, depending on the time of day. I went to take down my old Humphry Bogart and Billie Eilish posters yesterday and Kim said “Noo,” in such a sad way that I stopped.

Hold on, let’s overthink this.

I had a hard conversation today. I broke the news to my cats (Belichick and Tom Brady) that school starts at the end of the month, and I have to go back.

They took it well, I think. You know how cats are. I’ll know in a day or two, if their good will has turned to sour offense - they'll claw something up.

Belichick seems to be watching me extra closely though.
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Songs for this:
Lava by Still Woozy
Can't Hardly Wait by The Replacements
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08.01.3PM

Between ifs and whys,  
Life's questions softly whisper,  
Truths in doubt arise.

How fine it is to see
these waves roll
upon my beach,
To watch the sun dance
and play its light on
the water, like a vast
array of precious gems.

What a joy to feel the cool
power of the tide curling
around my legs.

These same waves perhaps
have embraced a thousand
other beaches, and have
belonged to strangers unknown,

But today these waves, this beach,
this moment belongs to me alone.

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑧𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠
𝐼𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑗𝑎𝑠𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡,
𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑠;
𝑂 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚!
𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑔;
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙
𝐼𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔...
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠
𝐼𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑒𝑠?
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑜𝑓
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑤
𝐽𝑢𝑚𝑝𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑘𝑦....
𝐴𝑧𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠...
𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑙
𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑠.....

My boyfriend Peter’s like smoke, he’s elusive. He doesn’t always carry his phone.

There’s a crosswalk in Tokyo, it’s in all the movies. The light changes and hundreds of people walking in different directions meet - but they don’t collide - they make room for each other, flowing around each other like water.

Peter and I make room for each other. Then we come together and we make something. We’re of such different textures - we come from stark counterpoints but somehow, we mesh.

He’s the first person I go to with an idea because I trust him and I think he understands me. He’s my secret weapon. His advice is a coin I’m careful with.

He’s gone through the long slog and achieved a dream. And he did it poor. He fought a guerilla war with almost no resources. He lived in crowded spaces, existed on Ramen noodles and saltine crackers, taking any job to cover.

He’s practical, goal oriented and he can be unsympathetic. He’ll whisper, “Nutup up, tinkerbell - you’re such a baby,” but there's a supportive energy to it - and he’s usually right. He heralds a reality I’m not always used to.

Anyway, he was smoky tonight. I couldn’t reach him. Sometimes we go over a week without talking (I'm not always reachable either) and when we do, it feels intimate and victory-like.
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Song for this:
Come in from the cold by Marc Broussard
One Two Three by Hooverphonic