This my kid...
Publishing a book is too hard and too expensive, so I made a website.
Thank you, Blessings.
- Summer 2025 -
Of Love and Zombies.
My Backup Career-Fishing.
My Backup Career-Fishing.
At the end of the line
When all the paved roads are empty of morning traffic and slow sedans,
Grass will eat our concrete like cookies.
Already, in construction zones, I see
Streets overtaken by tall weeds—
The kind that grow only in Iowa or Mississippi.
Already, in construction zones,
I find myself surprised by how fast concrete crumbles.
A
At the end of the line
When all the paved roads are empty of morning traffic and slow sedans,
Grass will eat our concrete like cookies.
Already, in construction zones, I see
Streets overtaken by tall weeds—
The kind that grow only in Iowa or Mississippi.
Already, in construction zones,
I find myself surprised by how fast concrete crumbles.
After the zombie apocalypse,
Vines will wrap my body like strange veins.
Buds will bloom over my chest.
My biceps will be botanical gardens.
My body will be beautiful then,
Not as beautiful as My Love now.
I don’t think I ever felt normal
For even a moment in my life
Until I met you.
Our first date,
We sat and talked in a Denny’s dining room, and the oxygen must’ve been more pure under those ribboned red and yellow ceilings—
Or maybe it was just you.
Not my absent mother’s first stroke of my scalp,
Not a planted kiss on my braids from my preoccupied father.
I don’t need drugs.
I don’t need air, or Earth’s atmosphere.
After we die—and now—all I need is you.
My Backup Career-Fishing.
My Backup Career-Fishing.
My Backup Career-Fishing.
I wake up, and of all the thoughts to have—
about the homes of Germany,
the slats of my childhood house,
waterfalls and ditches,
and even things metaphysical—
Of all the thoughts to have, I wake and think of you.
And maybe I have wandered too many dark forests and graveyards,
because this love feels like a curse.
Believe it or not, I have e
I wake up, and of all the thoughts to have—
about the homes of Germany,
the slats of my childhood house,
waterfalls and ditches,
and even things metaphysical—
Of all the thoughts to have, I wake and think of you.
And maybe I have wandered too many dark forests and graveyards,
because this love feels like a curse.
Believe it or not, I have enjoyed my time in my own head—
enjoyed every second in which I do not think of you,
every second in which I think only of myself
and all the other thoughts to have.
Unchained by the image of mesmerizing smiles, I get more done.
Free from possible plans, I have more time.
Sure, maybe I am more alive when I love someone,
but the choppy waves I have been trying to ease become unprioritized,
my judgment clouded by the idea of you.
When you are in my thoughts,
I merely roll on the deck
and let rainwater—saltwater—pound at my heavy clothes.
I grow ill,
and every inch of my bare skin learns how to be cold.
When it is just me—
when I slide my fisher’s smock above my knees, over my chest—
I stare at the gray clouds over my head and the graying water beneath my ship,
and the horizon becomes lost to lack of color.
I look over my shoulder, jutting my chin out:
“This feels like something I can do today.”
I become what I have always been:
a woman lost to the waves,
a lonely fisher.
All Self-Depricated.
My Backup Career-Fishing.
All Self-Depricated.
What happened?
I was once unafraid of pointy sticks and pen ink.
In light of all things, I regret—
and… I would rather heal now.
Finding myself in a glen between magic mushrooms and depression rocks,
Being alternative is overrated,
And I’m all self-depricated.
I wish I could go back in time—
Undo the first tattoo,
Dull the needles too,
Fix m
What happened?
I was once unafraid of pointy sticks and pen ink.
In light of all things, I regret—
and… I would rather heal now.
Finding myself in a glen between magic mushrooms and depression rocks,
Being alternative is overrated,
And I’m all self-depricated.
I wish I could go back in time—
Undo the first tattoo,
Dull the needles too,
Fix my split ends with glue.
The girl who stares at me in the mirror
Hates who stares back.
Wants to give a good slap:
"COME ON, DUDE — PICK UP THE SLACK!"
Why does God fight me at every step?
Why does He wish I was dead?
Why can’t He speak in my head?
Why can’t we just break bread?
I’m washing my hands of rough choices and harsh mistakes.
I want to change.
To become a girl made of orange clay.
All I wish—
To touch down to Earth,
To bring my ship to berth,
To realize my own worth.
- Author EMC On Keeping It EZ -
Cigarettes Was the 2nd Addiction/This is The Cure to Fatness/On Eating.
Learning to unlove can take so long.
I may have smoked my last cigarette tonight.
I may have not.
Unparalleled in a time of great change, I didn't know this would be my first habit to lose.
Not as if I were a chainsmoker - that was only the dream,
Once.
They say nicotine is addictive. I'm not so sure.
But
Learning to unlove can take so long.
I may have smoked my last cigarette tonight.
I may have not.
Unparalleled in a time of great change, I didn't know this would be my first habit to lose.
Not as if I were a chainsmoker - that was only the dream,
Once.
They say nicotine is addictive. I'm not so sure.
But I also might just be smoking rancid cigarettes.
Yet again, aren't they made that way.
To love you and to not wish you were here.
To love and to lose.
To give to god.
I do not smoke anymore because it reminds me of murky things:
- Spitting down the drain.
- Tobacco and lotion.
- Too - full stomach.
- Wishing a new metabolism to replace this old one.
- Grey, stale sweatshirt.
- Water on an empty stomach.
- Singed bangs.
- And you.
Cigarettes remind me of you - not that it’s a bad thing.
I feel new. My cells, I mean.
Allergic reaction to Gaspers and Kools and American Spirit and Marlboro - and every other cure, too.
Belle/Thumb/Free Love/On Love.
I cried about losing people. Yeah, I’m still at this stage.
This is why I can’t be trusted with love:
And my tears were fresh, rolling down my cheeks, and my bones were shaking - like a child.
As if I’m made of weaker stuff, as if I am ultimately new to loss.
I am not.
Loss is an old man. He has eyes that are the color of whoever I miss most
I cried about losing people. Yeah, I’m still at this stage.
This is why I can’t be trusted with love:
And my tears were fresh, rolling down my cheeks, and my bones were shaking - like a child.
As if I’m made of weaker stuff, as if I am ultimately new to loss.
I am not.
Loss is an old man. He has eyes that are the color of whoever I miss most today:
- My mom.
- Emily, at age 5 or 6.
- People I’ve never met.
- Harry Potter.
I cry and tell my best friend, "I am scared to lose you."
She replies, "I will stay with you forever if you let me."
As if it could be my choice.
As if she were the one to reach for me across all these stars.
As if I could ever let her go if I needed to.
As if it were any choice at all.
As if I would leave, even if she asked.
As if I would listen if she planted a gun on my head - like a garden in bloom - and told me, "You are not enough to keep."
There is no world where I am leaving.
How do you make love stay?
You can’t.
Love is not a person - it’s a plant.
A field of flowers. A green on a perfectly manicured golf course.
It grows in weeds, in tumbles,
In between concrete - and when its leaves crumble, its roots deepen.
Give me water.
Give me sunshine.
Give me your hands,
Your eyes,
Your soft, round heart.
Sing to me.
Loving her is having Real Love.
Loving her is
- Easy. It has always been.
Real.
You cannot scare me with words. I know them all.
My whole world is green.
Look inside my head, under my eyes - like my body under a blanket.
Look through my ears - like looking through a telescope into the night.
It is written across my frontal lobe -
I LOVE HER.
An Ode to San Diego/On Moving Away From Home.
An Ode to San Diego/On Moving Away From Home.
Driving back to San Diego - what a radical moment to experience some radical connection with God.
And all week at Original Home, feeling some kind of strange and out of place.
San Diego’s pollution has become a breath of fresh air.
My visit to Oceanside - a moment of real life.
The sun breaks down after an intense day, and the colors it creat
Driving back to San Diego - what a radical moment to experience some radical connection with God.
And all week at Original Home, feeling some kind of strange and out of place.
San Diego’s pollution has become a breath of fresh air.
My visit to Oceanside - a moment of real life.
The sun breaks down after an intense day, and the colors it creates on the waves as I dive through them is a new kind of magic.
Love stirs something inside of me.
Energy and relief and fun shock my exterior behavior.
If this is ADHD, then give me a million thoughts in my head. Make me a mess of tattoos - but also,
I am raw,
And so awake.
Make this new thing last.
Let me sink into melancholy during a slow song in the car.
Let me be so excited just to watch the surf on the pier.
Because all beautiful things remind me of you, and I am having such a good time - and originally, weren’t all my planned words about love?
Joshua and Tree/On All The Words I Can't Say.
Joshua and Tree/On All The Words I Can't Say.
An Ode to San Diego/On Moving Away From Home.
That first day in Joshua tree ripped a ravine through me,
Undid the seams of me,
Cooked all the beans I eat.
I spent that day in Joshua tree climbing rocks,
Name Rhyming spots,
Connecting stars to dots.
Where are all the bighorn sheep to see?
Where’s the fight or flight of me?
Am I even really even alive and free?
Are my hands waiting at my side - at my knee?
How Do All Good Stories Begin?/Dear Mom.
Joshua and Tree/On All The Words I Can't Say.
How Do All Good Stories Begin?/Dear Mom.
What if I don’t see Mom for the rest of Dads life.
I get it together.
I get more educated.
I start my career.
In the process I push out a song. I publish a book.
I watch my sister's graduate college.
I travel.
I own money.
Me and Dad visit Amsterdam, Copenhagen, the Swiss.
I don’t have kids.
I don’t be a mother.
And later, when the dust has really s
What if I don’t see Mom for the rest of Dads life.
I get it together.
I get more educated.
I start my career.
In the process I push out a song. I publish a book.
I watch my sister's graduate college.
I travel.
I own money.
Me and Dad visit Amsterdam, Copenhagen, the Swiss.
I don’t have kids.
I don’t be a mother.
And later, when the dust has really settled, the unthinkable happens.
And losing one parent prompts me to reach out to the other.
In this reality, the universe has finally forced my hand (for I am sure, in this lifetime, I cannot wait that long to see you again),
I walk into a coffee shop. Mom waits at a table.
(Do I decide to be the first one there or am I reasonably late?)
She is older, obviously.
She is grateful to have lived so long - somehow outliving dad.
Greyed hair. Lined face. Rounded body.
Beauty giving way to age, as mine will.
I order a hot chocolate or a decaf cappuccino.
I am not sure who talks first - and I’m not sure it matters. Hopefully, after all these years, I no longer care to hear an apology. It would only be more wasted time.
Anyway, in our conversations, maybe I find warmth.
Maybe the untouched room is opened - the glass of the window shatters - the sun shines through glazed curtains, new oxygen, a small breeze hurries to unsettle the inches of dust.
Maybe we are back to where we started.
Strange.
I Wrote This Poem In 2025/Spring 2025.
Joshua and Tree/On All The Words I Can't Say.
How Do All Good Stories Begin?/Dear Mom.
It’s spring fortitude, and spring mix kept in my salad.
Green springs up from my feet and springs up around me.
Green grass and green flowers and a bed, messy of healthy roots and sheets, healthy of night sweat.
As the strange wind comes through the window at night, it mixes the air from lukewarm into soft, cool peaks.
My eggs scramble into
It’s spring fortitude, and spring mix kept in my salad.
Green springs up from my feet and springs up around me.
Green grass and green flowers and a bed, messy of healthy roots and sheets, healthy of night sweat.
As the strange wind comes through the window at night, it mixes the air from lukewarm into soft, cool peaks.
My eggs scramble into soufflés the next morning, as I scramble out of bed and into clothes.
As the bird scrambles the bees, and as the bees scramble the green flowers.
Tomatoes leak from my salad, just like my healthy leaks in the morning.
Aren’t we all just lettuce?
Can’t we bee healthy, even with a healthy amount of Caesar dressing to coat our skin?
Aren’t we all the same human, coated in Caesar dressing?