United States

Published Work

Water Body

The Sea is its Own Fish

The sea is its own fish,
escaping from God's soup dish.
The water body ravages against the sky,
ripple mountains, fevered flight.
Seashells are its novelties,
it adheres to no pleasantries.
The sea is a beautiful dreamer,
a storm barreled in ferocious anger.
Storms that tear man made ships,
and waves that conquer the soul
in their softest whips.


She capsuled the sun in her stance, enamored with the wind that brushed her dark locks. She cradled her arms like the child she could never keep, her ankles position so daintily parallel to each other. Her lips promised a voice as delicious as honey on a silver spoon, punctured and pursed by her nervous teeth and padded fingertips. Her toes curled along the grass stalks that poked between them, cold and wet from last night's rain. Her knitted cardigan was pulled up towards her face where a distinguishing mark, as dark as the soil, rested over her cheekbone.
    In my profession, we'd call it a discrepancy of the skin along the Zygomatic bone. A birthmark. It was in the shape of a continent, perhaps the plains of Asia. The Russian ports reached up towards the beginning of her eye and caught tears when she cried, harvesting her sweet salt. If one had the fortunate chance of landing...


― Omelas

There’s a clock in the center of the town, where ravens threaten the robins that perch along the marble stone. Clock hands hesitant within every hour as the sun slowly caresses it’s nostalgic fingers along its surfaces. Its bell was perched above an old grand church that sang its hymns and dirges with a heavy and burning soul, calling for all grievances and sins to be washed away like a quick shower. The clock was often off, and instead of chiming hourly, it would reside in a moment and move onto another. It may have been off, but it never seemed to be late. It chimed when Patria Rosado was born— naked, ugly and empty, it chimed when Satira Rosado adjusted her wedding veil just right so she could get a better glimpse of her husband through the burning light of the sun. The clock chimed the moment Nolan Pollak smiled at Tulsa Vera. It chimed when Lillian...



She was the day.
That inexplicable warmth that poured over my skin and melted away the frost that had collected in the shadows. Her eyes hid behind the curtains, glowing in peace― I, the inferior poet, call out to her. The melody of her laugh rings through the cage in my chest and raptures the sadness that silences my canary heart. It is a laugh that grows inside the Loved, it is rich and bathed in gold. The Sun holds her with high prestige, the trace of his fingers in her smile as she sang the hymns of his lyre. She’d sing the heaven’s part, and I must’ve cried, because that warmth returned to me through streaks over my cheeks. They burned my lips, like melting wax. It was an bitter taste I was willing to hold in my tongue ― she was too beautiful to look away.
She was the moon.
    Her whispers tap along my...


The sacramentals of material matter
pare away beneath the dirt.
The chains slip from our wrists
and fall along with gravity
as we revel in our flight.
We settle in the rays of the sun,
or the spray of waves.
We are whispers between stars,
the shift in the seasons.

The ink cuts across time
and settles along the edge of our lips.
We shift waves by our tongues,
Cage nature in our hands.
We comprised our world
in a few simple equations,
the chalk dust flying from our fingertips.
We are a helix, running towards the center.

A thunderous pound,
it re-echoes along the chasm
of this infinite cosmos.
So inferior to the questions
that punctuate our asterisms--
yet it pulls apart the darkness
and competes against the stars.
We place our palms against it,
and the sound of the universe resounds.