throbbing veins & aorta trunk:

these shadows need encasement.

a body to ripple into.

to soil.

love is nightmare

for hastenburaphobes.


sunday’s best.

fretting the step off concrete

to save this glistening organ.

to swallow it whole.

to soil ​everything w/ fleshy mud?

i cannot.

i cannot,

like the movies,

toss this vessel

& everything it wears

to nature.

i cannot

be devoured by worms.


a heart of




i cannot.

even holding your hand.

i will stay

clean & lonely

& watch the slide

from the sidewalk.

sorry, love.

Eulogy from a cage

We fill potholes with spigot water

And aim mirrors at the sun

to splash in rainbows.


And when the wind picks up,


We outstretch our arms

and let the leaves, and bags, and wrappers whirl around


Like sorcerers

We made miracles

Blessed bones,

blood and chalk outlines,


Clawed curses from our children,

Learned to love the sinners


And spoke to God

In our last breaths


We listened to

Teddy bears speak eulogies.


And hexed hope

into pockets with quarters


And dawned

Chainmail- hardened and brave


We were magic

Praising God and

Waiting for nothing

But our heartbeats


In our land where

Breathing is a commodity


We are



Too familiar with Neverland


Caught in clock towers

Where hands slip as fast as lives


We are

Our own soldiers

Armed, weighted, watching

I wonder…


Have you ever thought about surviving?


Ever been urban legend?


Had your dreams reduced to fairytales?




I wonder…


If I will be

Your first

And last



On my last night on Earth

Will you mourn like

You listened

To my song

Like you believed

And spoke

And read

And danced

And followed

And flew


Will you?


There is a boy who kisses me hello and goodbye.

I thought his name was David

And three weeks later,

I wait for not-David on the porch.


not-David reminds me that I write a lot about love

Or “the idea of it”, he says.

And I want to remind him, lightly,

That in some religions

Ideas made the oceans and sky.


And I am watching him now

Stomp across dandelions and damp grass.


As he greets and sits

In my hammock- swaying

As if he told friction to

Leave with his sorrows

And she obliged.


But he is still afraid of bees-

Scares easy, I think.

Afraid of the natural, the fall,

The sting, and the ache.

“But isn’t it beautiful?”, I say.

“The bees beset the flowers

And someone braved the bees

and brought the flowers

that you bought for me.”

(he bought me flowers, you know?)

And I say all this

As he swats

At the droning

Between us.


I wish to find the florist-

Who arranged the roses

And hid the thorns so well.

Who laced the daisies

And ferns with asters,

And charmed me

To breath their perfume.

Who enabled this boy

To lie

So easily

In the springtime sun.

More Thoughts on Degrees of Separation…

After perusing my Google Drive, I happened upon lots of “Untitled Documents” with snipits of poetry and song lyrics from a project I started very long ago. Seeing this quickly reminded me of a few abandoned compositions I created  as well.

I feel inspired to take a another shot at songwriting; perhaps, for Degrees? I’m not sure if it’ll be a musical or a play with musical elements, but perhaps this can be a good way to flesh out more details of the world I’m trying to create.

That said, I’ll start throwing around some stuff on this blog that may or may not resemble a song? If I’m feeling up to it, maybe some voice recordings can do some good.

Ferrie’s definitely an alto in my head, which is pretty rad.

From the Depths of Google Drive… Untitled Document #1

(I’m gonna try not to edit these “Untitled Documents”. I’ll leave them here as checkpoints and artifacts. Enjoy)


I tried writing a letter about the bongo drums and the neon orange tables, but my hand seized up. I Google: How to write something shallow, though poetic. Mundane, though interesting. Something to get you smiling all the way from from [Florida]- like those old, white poets you adore. You shouldn’t sense the tear-stained page or the zizz knocking at my eyebrows. I know that letters laced with big words are your favorites. I imagine you devouring similes like dates and mangoes with metaphors rotting your teeth. I’ve read your work. You do it best.

It used to be easier to write something of substance- or maybe, once, I didn’t give up so easily. This was supposed to be a love letter, but please forgive me. All the sweet-nothings fell out of my ears and onto Baltimore Ave. Usually, my rides aren’t this bumpy and I’m coming from a better place. I thought thinking about you would take me there. Usually, it does.

I think- you have the power to make a thousand people smile all at once. I am a thousand miles away and there are several thousand people in between us. And the probability of you settling for me is…


The First of Many Heartbreaks for Fun-loving Ferrie (Letters That I’ll Never Send #1)

Yooooo Tyler…

(You mentioned wanting to talk again. Although I’m not opposed to it, I’m better at writing than I am at speaking about these kinds of things. I’m braver too.)

I’m writing this at 2am, but you’ve been the last thing I’ve thought about before bed for a very long time- why break tradition now?

I’ve thought about writing this letter and not sending it, but I’m tired of putting work into things to not have them come to fruition.

A while ago a friend made me promise to be more deliberate and I think I have to start here.

With that said, I’m not writing this to convince you of anything. I simply wanted to let you know how I feel/felt. I understand that this is the end. It has to be. We both have to be honest and sure.


I’m not going to pretend I’m not angry  either. Or that I didn’t hold on to a lot of hope for this “thing” we had. But of course, the logical part of my brain recalls something that you said to me a while back… Something about “expiration dates” and “doing what feels good”. And you felt good to me and I knew that this had to end someday. I just hoped not like this.

With that said, I have one question- how long have you known?

You know that I hate wasted time, wasted opportunity, wasted anything, really. You said that “you wish you had let me know sooner”. Well, buddy-

Why didn’t you?

That would’ve hurt far less than me wondering, waiting, and preparing for the worse.

Fuck, I saw it coming, but I didn’t care. In this little bubble, you were right there with me- thinking the same thoughts, making the same plans.  I think I saw consistency in the way you cared and ate that up like cauliflower buffalo wings.

And that’s not your fault. I’m messy like that.

Actually, I had tried to stop falling two Saturday’s ago. Call it naivety, or loneliness, or just plain clumsiness buuuut I couldn’t catch myself. These things happen so suddenly anyway.

The ground opened up beneath my feet as my hands clawed desperately at the air, but i got distracted by how good the rush feels between my fingers, on my skin. Falling feels like lying side by side under dirty bedsheets and tastes like your muffins and cheap boxed wine. Sounds like your promises and laughter and monologues about Spain and the tropics. Looks like you sitting across from me in the dining hall, eating raisins, stealing glances, and making plans for Thai.

You’d say “stop looking at me like that” and I’d smile not being able to articulate what “that” even means. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. I like(d) you. A lot. Sheesh, asshole.

You know what really blows? You grass-stained my favorite shirt and the sex wasn’t even that good. Okay, I’m lying, but that’s my favorite shirt! And I can’t help but remember the cider and that garden and your tired, brown eyes. And I used to hate your hot-ass breath, but I kinda miss the way it mixed with mine when we held each other that close for that much longer before scurrying off to class.

I’m sick of things being called “rare” no matter how true it is. Knowing doesn’t make me feel better.

Yes. I know I’m the shit. People gravitate. People admire and pine and lust and whatever else. But those people aren’t you. Believe it or not, you were/are special to me.

I’m not sure if I regret being vulnerable to you because I’ve backed myself into a corner now that this has to end. And I know you’ve offered to still help, but it isn’t the same and I can’t help but feel like I’ve lost a friend.

I don’t know what to do.

But hey, pal-

You don’t have to respond to this. You probably won’t.  It’s whatever. You know what? Maybe I won’t send this after all. I kinda hate that you’re in my thoughts.


Petty regards,


P.S. Fuck you, Tyler.


Artist- Marta Bellvehí

I’ve had an epiphany!


I’m working on this play called Degrees of Separation and it follows the story of this person, Ferrie, and their six (documented) romantic escapades over the course of a year. Ze’s v queer, v confused, and v tired of distance (literally and figuratively).

Like the piece I started last semester called Twenty-Six, it’s slated to be a tragicomedy. Given how jazzed I was to write it then, I sort-of hoped it’d write itself come August. I’ve learned that I need to stop hoping for things (ha).

I’ve been stuck. Who are these “lovers” are in Ferrie’s world? Are they abstractions? Real people? Real assholes ? I need to be specific.

It’s 2:18 am on a monday, and i’ve had an epiphany.

Let’s use this nifty blog to write Ferrie’s letters to these people! You know,  a whole “things I’ll never send”- situation? It’d be a good way to flex some creative muscles and potentially learn a lot more about zir  and, by extension, the other characters i’m struggling so hard to find.

Not everything will be about Ferrie. I’ll be sure to label the thingys as they come up. For now, I’m speaking this whole “letter” thing into existence and hoping (here I go again) that it comes to fruition. Internet gods- hold me to it.

Cool? Cool.


Sometimes poems…

It’s been a rough few weeks. I frequent a blank Google Doc with blinking cursor more often than usual  with a cellphone newly set to “do not disturb”. Without going into specifics, there’s been a lot of change very, very quickly and although I’m convinced it’s for the better, it doesn’t make it any less hard to digest; especially, during nights like these in the company of invasive thoughts and my old, infamous friend- Insomnia.

I can’t write- or I don’t think I can which is worse. I’ve discouraged myself even before putting pen to page (or fingers to keyboard). I’m trying to work through it; this blog is supposed to be a step in the right direction.

I can’t promise you anything but sometimes poems. I know it’ll be selfish and a strange mix of convoluted and cliche- whatever it is. I’m trying. I’m working through it.

Who knows? Perhaps it’ll entertaining to go along for the ride? Or watch behind Plexiglas as I free-fall? Or whatever other carefully constructed metaphor I can’t come up with right now because…

I can’t find the words! (ding-ding. another cliche. as promised)

I’m trying. I’m working through it.

Here I go…