Home

I would turn a library into a home. I would be the happiest person in the world. I would sleep with the paperbacks, build forts with the hardbacks, write stories on the free wi-fi. My bed would be made of shredded pages of James Patterson and Nicholas Sparks novels, and I would read a page of Hemingway every morning with my breakfast, fully annotate it, and then drink coffee out of cups like 19th century Victorian English ladies, especially Jane Eyre. I would make my toilet paper out of all the Twilight, Mortal Instruments, and pretty much any cheaply made, horrid teen novel series that make it ten times worse by their lack of originality. So this is where I would live. I would have my friends cater  me food until I make a best selling novel, and then I’ll just hire a chef to serve me. The end. 

Food

My favorite food is chocolate, anything with chocolate. If I had to eat it and only it for the rest of my life I would be perfectly content. My favorite meal is a nice grilled bacon-wrapped filet with new potatoes and sauteed vegetables, finished off with a nice chocolate dessert. Angus Barn would make it for me, but they would cater it to me as I lounged on a beach chair, table placed in front of me and everything. 

I’m not really obsessed with food the way some people are. What I eat is normally determined by what kind of workout I have today. That’s the problem with being an athlete: I try to watch what I eat. I usually try to combine pleasure and purpose with what I eat: energy and enjoyment. I don’t think a person is really what he or she eats. I think the fuel you eat however is super important to carry you through on the decisions that you make from day to day. 

Adults

I feel adults get weighed down by all the new responsibilities of the new elements in their life that they can’t hold onto those memories of freedom and opportunity, hope and constant, swimming change. I am sure that I will never forget that feeling of a crush, insecure and sharing it with your friends in circles, in hushed corners of the school cafeteria or auditorium in the passenger seat of your car, giggling as he passed. 

Experimentation

So my sci-fi books would be about government experimentation on humans. They want to understand us more, the way we think and act and react. They want the entertainment industry to be built up more, but in reality many of them are aliens, who are seeking to “plant” what we want through study and implementation. 

What Color Am I?

I am a sunrise, a touch of sky blue, with layers of pink and purple and orange. Because, follow my lines and I am creative. I am the sum of these parts: creative, courageous, and a seeker of wisdom. I am the accumulation of my mind, flashed across at the first spark of light, waking all to the beauty of the world through my words. 

If I were Indestructible:

Hands down, I would attach myself to a plane on its way to Venice. When we landed, I would immediately run to the gondolas and swim from gondola to gondola until I had gone around every square block of Venice, and when the indestructible powers wore off, I would sit in a cafe, reading books and watching people for a good week. 

Mr. Davis Ekphrasis

Dada called me Bugsy 

And my brother Bugs. 

He said we were cause we buzzed 

Instead of walking, we were

Vibrations, we were flight, 

Sprinkling childhood with our 

Juicy-Juice box sweat, damp. 

Dada called Mama bitch, 

And Janine when company came. 

Dada called our house a nest, 

A sound of going going and 

Never Listenin’, Never Ever Stopping

To think of Dada, who didn’t 

Have a special name at all

Until he chewed on a metal tube 

And named himself Tragedy 

And renamed us all Insignificant. 

Limerick

An amputated free-range turtle 

Wished that her loins were strong and fertile 

But she was far too slow 

To get boy turtles to go 

When she asked for their seed, they’d all chortle. 

Breakfast in Bed

Pitter down the hall to the 

Patter of an eight A.M. clock 

Pitter of a Mama’s drowsy watch

Pat on the back as I 

Pitter into her be and there’s a 

Patter of the coffee cup that

Pitters on the night stands witha  

Pat on the tummy. 

It’s morning. Time to taste the sun. 

Curly flop of a bedhead mess

Cue the giggles as Mama’s tickles 

Curly little laughter, folding into the air 

Cue the fall into a warm 

Hug of a crisp morning breath 

And a coffee hint on the tip. 

Kiss a little on my cheek 

Hug and thank me for the wake

And tell me special is my name

Kiss my fingers jelly-jam stained

Pitter as I run away cause a 

Patter afternoon of play will

Pitter away if I don’t 

Pat Mama once, and Curly Cue my 

Leave with an “I love you”. 

The Fall of Icarus

The crick of the carriage and a groan of a mule

And the chorus goes on and the bread is baked

And the miller’s mill the shoes of them who mill

And head is down, knees are wobbling

And his sweat is crying to let the pace of 

Day slow to a yawn, slow to a casual stroll. 

Head is down, back is breaking, and not one 

Can even see that little beige speck of me. 

And I’m tumbling, spiraling free. 

And though I sought my freedom of walls

And shiny black eyes. 

I wish a wall or an eye would catch 

The dissolved trail of my 

Last streak of wailing screaming, drowned life. 

But it’s swallowed, devoured by the crick of 

A carriage and a groan of a mule.