"I contain multitudes."

like golden marbles
like honey and trombones 

Joy to

Joy to the 
cracks in my sidewalk
Joy to the 
homeless man who has
asked for my number twice
Joy to the
loose fuzzies in my carpet
Joy to the 
ignored phone calls
Joy to the 
Joy to the
hidden message
Joy to the 
neighbors that stay
up as late as you do
Joy to the
feeling you get when you
"just go along with it"
Joy to the
airplanes that 
take people where they 
wanna go
Joy to the
beer in my hand
Joy to the 
scars on my feet
Joy to the
big slippery moon
who is pretty but

If I could 
rewrite my 
I’d draw in 
more lakes and 
front porches,
smaller fusses and 
fewer tears.
I’d ask 
special permission to
squeeze in things
I thought about saying 
when we
dipped our 
toes in the water that early morning.
I’d take fewer 
pictures and feel less
guilty about nights
I let myself 
stay home and 
watch my ceiling fan.
I wouldn’t put 
myself up against
photos you over posed,
over processed.
I would maybe 
sing better and 
learn to play jazz bass,
I wouldn’t have listened
to some promises but I would have
believed more things you said
(unjaded, unfazed). 

My Neighbor Sells Coffins

I’ve started to dread when my
lights turn off and
white shapes are 
projected onto the 
screen of black.

There are 
ghosts in my floorboards and
whispers in my walls,
someone is singing
downstairs and my
bed is swallowing me
in big cottony gulps.

Someone bought 
flowers for the kitchen table-
I had a
nightmare about them and
woke up to them
on the cold cold

this is a good moment

There are some very perfect moments from the last 48 hours that I’m never going to forget:

1) Us crying (mostly me crying) outside Rob’s house, talking about first kisses and my slow driving and all the times we met up on 17th Ave in High School. Just standing on that dumb street corner, using my tissues, the cans of beer I snuck out of my basement clunking around in the backpack. We spent a million nights on that exact spot, and it never had occurred to me that we would one day be remembering and planning for the future there. 

1.5) Carrie grabbing our hands and saying how much we mean to her. It’s dittoed a million times, but I couldn’t say it because, you know, emotion game too strong. Via my teary eyes.

1.75) Us leaving the party early (typical), and me buying you two $16 worth of taco bell.


16 U.S. Dollars worth of taco bell.


2) Standing on Lizzie’s porch, watching Nicole climb up the guard rails and talking about Milwaukee. The three of us knowing that things will change. But we’ve been lucky, much luckier than most. I know few people that can say they are this close with their High School friends.

2.5) It was very quiet until someone said it was a good moment, and I couldn’t agree more.

3) Saying adios to you this morning. I always forget how small you are. Thinking about how many nights we sat in your driveway, wishing we had something to do. Being your chauffeur all the times you got grounded when your parents found weed/beer/condoms under your bed and in your zune box (you don’t own a zune). Your driveway is like Rob’s street and it’s like Lizzie’s porch. It’s a meaningless place that I’m not going to forget.

My two favorite people, my favorite little city, my favorite town. Life is big and dumb, but it’s wrapped around beautiful little moments that I don’t think I can ever forget. My best stories begin and end with your names and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

We’ll be together soon, bichachos. 

I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness.

— On the Road, Jack Kerouac

Fixed. theme by Andrew McCarthy