Ghost

If I were a ghost I'd be the friendly kind,
Leaving small flowers on doorsteps
and helping old ladies across the street.
I 'd only haunt my grave
to see who came to remember me.
Vengeful ghosts get all the attention:
Jacob Marley, La Llorona, the Flying Dutchman.
But I'd rather be kind and quiet
than loud and famous--even if
it means no one visits my grave.

Be Wild

I like to take risks.
Like putting my socks on before my underwear.
That's something new.
I always wear my underwear, though.

I never told her I loved her.

The Orange in your Eyes

Hard times happen all of a sudden like lightening striking your house or grandpa falling asleep for the last time. Hard times create little fractures that break across the face of your life and stay there no matter where you look. 

When I was little I would wake up too early and put goggles on and go skiing all day. When I would get home, I'd take the goggles off and be amazed at how blue the world seemed. The orange tint of the goggles had protected my vision. I wouldn't notice it in my eyes until I took the goggles off. 

Good times are like the orange in your eyes. Good times grow slowly, have been there so long you forget you have them. 

Hard times happen like fireworks. Good times happen like ivy creeping up a wall. 

Notice the good times when the orange is still on your eyes, not when the goggles are ripped off and the piercing blue is all you can see. 

Momento Mori

Sometimes I realize that I don't know what I'm doing with my life. Most of the time when that happens I just try to stuff the thought back down my throat and tuck it behind my liver where it belongs. Other times I let the thought swirl around in front of my eyes, and after a while it airs out and stops smelling so much like bile. Other times I imagine an envelope floating directly over my head that's addressed to me and has all the answers and someday I'll tear open its paper lips and my wrinkled fingers will tremble as they unfold the letter and read the strange writing:

"Dear Mr. Turner,

This letter is empty because you already know everything that's going to happen to you because your life is over now.

Love, 

Death"

And then I'll wonder where Death learned to speak English, and die.

A Big Day for Wesley

A few months ago I learned that a short story of mine was going to be featured in a literary journal. As my first legitimate publication, it was a big day for me to see it online. I look forward from many 'big days' in the future, most of which will hopefully be unrelated to my literary endeavors. For now, I'm content to look up my short story everyday, just to know that it's there.

You can read "So Close to Heaven" here.

What Do You See Out There?

"Mama?"
"Mm?"
"Mom?"
"Yes."
"I was wondering about dying."
"..."
"Lettie said that when you die a man with a white face and black robes comes and takes your soul right out of your mouth, and that your soul looks like the bud of a small white flower with a firefly trapped inside. I told Lettie she was a liar because I hadn't heard anything like that before and Lettie says a lot of things. But is it true? Is it really like that, Mama?"
"..."
"Mom?"
"Mm?"
"Is it true?"
"No dear, death isn't beautiful. Not like that."
"Is that why you wait by the window?"
"..."
"What are you looking for, Mama? What do you see out there?"

Secrets in her Fists

She held her secrets in her fists
like birds still wanting breath.
But when she called I came to her
Walked between the shadows of trees
Felt autumn wind in our lungs
Counted the clouds.
I would have whispered "I love you,"
But they were just three words and
I was just one person with a heart
too small for words so big and it felt
cruel to say something possibly untrue.
I could see the reflections
of clouds in her eyes, moving slowly
away from us. She whispered "I love

the way the leaves whisper in the trees.
What are they saying, do you think?"