1) As a writer I hope to finish my manuscript, and start my second book.
2) I want to craft better action, and incorporate it seamlessly into my dialogue.

In no particular order

1) A Proper Polish Welcome-Torres
    Allow me to clarify with this one that I am not polish. I chose this song for its moody intersection of oceanic imagery with     descriptions of a wlw relationship.
2) June- Florence and the Machine
    It makes me want to run away, find a city, something, anything. 
3) Youth- Glass Animals
4) Mother-Tori Amos
    This song is november, the bite of the air. It sounds...

I am a child of mundanity, the bruised fruit
picked at the tail of autumn,
cortland apples, my grandfather
cut down a brace of trees 
he has renal failure. The trees were not dead
they only had ceased to bear fruit, 
their only crime, that they were no longer useful
who will serve me, when purpose is not 
the purpose that I serve, when I am bruised fruit gone soft

    "Hey kid," James' mother burst through the door.
    "Ya?" James was on the couch. He sat up abruptly.
    "Grab your coat. We're leaving." She was rifling through the boxes in the kitchen. She snagged a granola bar from the cabinet.
    "Where?" James nearly fell off the couch. He knew better than to get in the way of his mother's momentum.
    "You'll see. Just get your coat for god's sake. We have to leave before it...

I write because the words
already live inside me
scrambling
to 
escape
 

have you ever thought about
how you are aware of your limbs
of where they are in space
even when you can't see them

I rest my hands on the bark of a dying
maple, his body insect hollowed
I hope my warmth lingers, a comfort,
as I try to plug up the holes in his body

beneath bark and lichen both
(if I disregard the interlopers)
he is smooth

I have a secret, I am fallible,
an animal still, I...

in spite of
the desperation of
your written word, you have nothing
to say
to me.
.
for the first time in my life I
make no motion
to fill these empty minutes
I listen to your silence,
and
.
.
.
.
.
I make you end the call

does august see me?
as I hide beneath trees, first
from heat, now from rain