When I Talk to Trump Supporters

It is like setting down a water glass in the dark
missing the ledge
and watching it crash at your feet.
Like anticipating that extra step which does not exist
and hitting the floor.
Like opening Pandora’s box
but instead of pestilence and hatred
it is empty.
You reach in and scoop out
with clutched fingers
and find only riddled-out insides
like abandoned honeycombs or
teeth gorged with cavities.
Lifting the cover on your boiling water
to find it’s all become steam.
What have you fought for,
where is the real you thought you’d clung too,
where are the armies you thought were at your back
to turn the tide,
to patch the wound,
to rouse your spirits when it seemed you might
fade away to smoke on the battlefield.
When what you thought you were protecting was a beating heart
and you thought you knew the red of its flesh
and the folds of thin muscle
and the sound of it,
slow thuds, faint whispers,
but it revealed itself to you as nothing more than
ash, than blackened bones about to crack,
than rusted chains you cannot break,
than something dead which small insects have begun to worm their way inside of.
How can you stand for something when
there are creatures which eat the floor out from under you.
It is preaching to jackals,
it is the renunciation of god,
it’s the collapse of concrete walls
and kneeling in the rubble
and wondering where the worth
in your conviction was.


My Thoughts on This Week

For the past few months I’ve been making more posts and talking more with my friends about politics, and I’ve constantly felt like I should apologize or be embarrassed for talking about it so much, or for starting arguments with people I generally get along with.
But I’m realizing more and more we can’t feel bad for calling out our acquaintances, our friends, our family, when they exhibit close-mindedness, racism, sexism or bigotry. In fact, it’s dangerous not to. It is our responsibility to call them out and challenge their thinking.
An off-handed comment from a friend might seem harmless enough. But when you see and overhear these ideas you cannot forget what they snowball into. The mass shooting in Orlando, an attack directly targeting LGBT men and women. Brock Turner, a white man found guilty of rape, sentenced to a mere six months in prison, likely to get out in three. The wrongful deaths of Trayvon Martin, Philando Castile, Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, Alton Sterling, and many others at the hands of police. These events, the products of bigotry and racism and misogyny, aren’t created from nothing. Trace them to their roots and they are birthed from the same small acts of hatred we see committed by the ignorant and hateful in our communities every day.
As more and more people have addressed, it’s not just the willfully ignorant and blatantly wrong-minded who nurture a culture of inequality and danger, but the silent. Those who see the problems but refuse to speak up. If you write posts every week railing against Hillary Clinton’s improper email use, but somehow can’t find the time to talk about the 102 unarmed black men shot by police in 2015, the 200 people who have died in US mass shootings in this year alone, the fact that a woman’s chance of being raped in the US is 1 in 5, that between 30 and 40% of LGBT youth have at one pointed attempted suicide, then you’re not doing enough. If you claim to care about your country, the people in it, if you believe in the worth of a human life, do more.
It is important, necessary, to speak out against the people in your lives who, well-meaning or not, keep hate and inequality alive. But perhaps even more importantly, we need to listen. If you are white, straight, or male, you need to listen to people of other races, orientations and genders if you have any interest in improving their world.
I like to think of myself as open-minded and progressive, and I understand how it stings to be confronted with the possibility that might not always be true. But it’s not my beliefs, my personhood, my life itself under attack. If a person in any marginalized category tells me I have done something wrong, or hurtful, or damaging to them, I need to listen. If you’re a man and a woman tells you something looks like harassment, listen. She understands better than you. If you’re white and a black man or woman tells you you’ve said something damaging, listen. They know better than you. And then, once you’ve listened, do better.
Do better, and expect better of your parents, your neighbors, your friends, your teachers, politicians, your law enforcement. At the core, a police officer is nothing but another flawed human being wielding a gun and authority. Hold them to high standards. Criticize their mistakes as you criticize your professor, your boss, your presidential nominees, because they are humans whose decisions have the capacity to end innocent lives. No one, not even the uniformed, deserves a free pass.
Men and women are suffering and dying for reasons pertaining only to their skin color, their gender, their sexuality, their language. This cannot and will not change unless more people recognize the problems exist, speak out, and make a conscious decision as a whole that they will do better. I’ve seen people who hold themselves to that standard. I’m going to try to hold myself to that standard. It is only with action and the willingness to improve, our surroundings and ourselves, that anything will ever change. Expect more from your friends, expect more from your officials, and expect more from yourself.

My Mother

This is a poem about my mama who is beautiful and talented and smart and determined and totally ridiculous. ❤ Happy Mother’s Day!!

She is powerful.
She might not look it at first.
Like her daughters
she is many smiles
and fluttered laughter.
It is hidden,
saved for when it’s needed.

She is like the ark –
nice to have around,
undervalued til the flood hits.

Her daughters are
bundles of white-hot emotion
that leap out like
untamed sparks
and she weathers their tempest
till the sea calms,
often sheltering
a stranded sailor or two.

She is balance,
bridled creativity,
flighty logic,
softened truth
and sweetened fibs,
the first to crack a joke
and the first to crack at the task at hand.

She is assertiveness
she was not born to,
carefully-channeled authority
that had to be melted down
and hardened again
like steel in the blacksmith’s fire.

She is prepared with questions
but still often taken by surprise.

She is adventure
close to home,
journeys found in the backyard.

She is finding the beauty in something small,
she is sentimentality,
she is framed second-grade paintings on the mantel
but also knowing when it’s time to throw
an old sketch away.

She is holding on and letting go.

She is beautiful,
the sort of slow-blossoming beauty
like coal becoming diamond,
like a bird that never truly sees
the vibrancy of its own wings.

And she is laughter,
she is humor,
she is finding the smile in something so mundane
anyone else might have passed that pebble on the road
but she had to stop and kick it
and her daughters must now do the same.

Quick to feel and sometimes bubble over
but it’s tempered by
a wisdom
and that ever-elusive ability
to tell someone “I’m sorry.”

She is contradiction
and sliding scales,
she is rock and water,
she is Dao and academia,
she is kaleidoscope emotion

but always
unwavering love.

Moon River

For the past month I’ve sort a little bit occasionally been trying to pick up guitar and started posting some of my songs. They’re all really, really basic but it’s so much fun to actually be able to play these pieces of music that I sing all the time. ❤ This is me singing/playing Moon River if you want to check it out!

Writing a Poem

There’s nothing worse than poetry that tries too hard.
How pretentious is that of me to say?
Like pretentious wrapped in pretension,
pretentious squared,
but there’s nothing worse than
“I’m a jackrabbit cartwheeling on a unicycle into
high speed tentacular futuristic pluralism –”

Slow down there, bud.

Words are pretty for the sound of them
lovely for the truth of them
pleasant for the way they roll from
one consonant to another
but they are not pretty for their crowded
or their race-to-the-finish
or their “how far away from meaning can this
cluster of syllables be”
“can I stretch this string of gum until it breaks”

Stop forcing it so much.

The law of matter states you cannot make something out of nothing
and you cannot pull what is poetry from thin air.
It is translation, transmutation,
it has to come from somewhere
that is sliver-true.
You take what you love
and you dance around it
in frenzied circles
till like hitting a bell
you finally strike at something
resonant and pure.

Tapered Joyful

Your words are razor edges
but I take them like they’re rose petals you scattered on my bed.
We’ve all got our tricks for getting the blood stains out.

Happy is a full-time labor and sometimes that means
gripping thistle by its thorns
and pretending it is dahlias.

A job is the thing you do to get paid
but work is the thing you put your sweat into
and steady your breath for
and clean up piles you are scared to touch for
because once you start you cannot stop
you do not know how to break things into pieces.

You do not know that the path is made of stepping stones.
While you’re busy on-the-clock you are
collecting dimes measured in minutes
but you are also working double-shift
as you whip your tired animal
who struggles with his plow towards

Do not mistake the flower boxes by the window
for the warmth of the kitchen;
what is manicured outside
is sometimes ravaged within.

I am fortress-strong.
I am Troy.
I can stave off your hoplites for years on end,
hundreds need be;
it’s the things that get inside
that will tear me down.


Sometimes I feel like I’m
all glitter and sparkle
and I’m just slowly absorbing
all the little details of the people around me.

Sit next to them too long and their
old family sayings or
the way they toss their hair or
the way they lower their voices telling a joke or
the way they cling to the ground with their toes like it all might fall away
becomes imprinted on my body
like a stamp,
unsolicited tattoos,
a permanent addition to my reflection like
a freckle or a bruise.

My dress is full-length mirrors
or maybe it’s jell-o that
shakes and jiggles but
when people touch it with their fingers
they leave little bumps and prints
that won’t go away.
I’m a scrapbook collecting up
all the little pieces of the people
that have come and gone;
their ticket stubs, lipstick stains,
empty coffee cups, beer bottle caps.
You can read me like
the story of them,
weaker where the presence
of a high school friend has faded,
stronger when my sister visits for the weekend or
I spend the day in the city with
an old college classmate
I’m just all bundled-up
struggling impressionist,
flounder bedding itself into the scrabble of your ocean floor.

I’m sun bouncing back
because I can’t resist
trying out your light.

I’m diagnosed with a disease
that lets your personality leap like virus
and it clings to my cells
and becomes just another little piece of me
like wood splinters
breaking off in your skin.