Saturday, March 20, 2010


I was flipping through my journal from when I traveled around parts of Europe this summer and I found some poems I wrote. As I typed it up I edited it quite a bit-- I tend to do that...but it still says the same thing.

I'm dedicating this one to my brother, because while I was there I kept thinking I wished he were with me because he would have loved Oxford so much-- and now he is going to study abroad there this summer! How cool is that? So brother, forget silly trinkets and such, just be sure you bring Oxford back for me...k?

Can I Take You With Me?

Oxford, will you fit in my backpack?
I want to stuff your castle-cut walls
somewhere between my clothes and
souvenirs. I walk your paths
hoping to never find what I'm looking for--
an answer to the mystery
of beauty and knowledge. You look at me
with eyes that see my kind every day:
those who desire to snatch you up like
a jewel thief and sneak you back to Georgia
so I can brake you out at night and
and dance around your muses.
But my backpack is heavy,
and customs are tight.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

It Depends on Your Thermometer

You’ve wrecked my internal thermostat.
The cold is hot and the heat is chilly.
I’m wrapping up in blankets and
afghans to the sound of lawn mowers
and fresh-out-of school kids asking
for money. I’m taking medicine
to avoid addiction, and sleeping
in to remember the day—looking
for signs to know life is more
than extraordinary—formed
in the palm of a poor boy’s
dad as he bounces him on his knees.
“Am I just one more mouth to feed?”
I ask as I fast and fast until I throw up.
Ripping off my blanket you
expose me to the humidity.
And now I’m left to eat to
starve myself from you.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010


I, like a slave,
eat dirt; pull a
cart with my teeth,
pick up worms with
my toes, carry loads
and loads and loads.
I’ve heard of the
Master’s son—
freed all the slaves.
But I’m still plowin' your
fields, I was bred
working this land.
Don’t you tell me go--
tell me wait. My yoke
fell heavy on me at
birth, my feet to the
rows, my hands to the