after

i once walked
through graves,
tracing names
on tombstones
faded from sight.
i imagined
bones in boxes,
separated from
their souls, left
to wait for some
kind of return –
to ash? to dust?
or is there only
the shedding
of skin so spirits
can finally soar
somewhere
among the stars?

Poetry or Paint?

I haven’t written much poetry over the last few months because I’m trying my hand at abstract art. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing, and maybe that’s why I’m enjoying it so much. In some ways, it is like my process of writing; I usually begin without knowing the end result. Sometimes it is garbage, but at other times something cool happens. For instance, I can stare at this untitled acrylic pour for a long time and still not see everything that’s there. It is somehow ethereal, cosmic, calming, and chaotic at the same time. Maybe then, it should be titled “Life”.