O Captain! My Captain!

Every day is an adventure—it's your story. The day unfolds how you see fit. It does this because you are the writer—you are bold, you are strong, you are kind and you are gentle. You are the writer—you are the captain.

Put wildflowers along the decks and destroy the stop button on that ol' record player. Fall back. Order your comrades to do the same, order them to fall back. Order them to take in that endless ocean before them, order them to take it in.

Now breathe, breathe, breathe—it's all yours.

Vintage (Rearranging the Stars)

It’s funny, a star missing its step, forgetting its part in the night, constellating incorrectly. And yet it still feels so utterly complete as I trace its passage across the sky. I examine its patterns, the mother bear and her son and charming little Venus. I begin to laugh. I begin to laugh at all this. I bite my fingers and lick the silver from the cut. I think about the planets orbiting one another, aligning themselves to their own rhythms, as I sway to mine. And I am satisfied when we undulate in unison, and I am more courageous with each sway and I am more merry until I come apart. My shame putters toward the light crowning the cluster. And what was once funny is now holy until a new star misses its step, forgets its part in the night, constellates incorrectly.

If

And I am chasing a butterfly (or is it the butterfly—the one I capture?). Yellow wings, everything light, even me and I am unable to think clearly. Clean. I am a baby. To imagine my life all at once, I rest my head on a stone.

Dust makes its way into my eyes, resting on my pupil and how I love all of this. How playful the problem is...the butterfly flys away.

My eyes are burning—it is day. I am twenty-seven today. I make coffee. I pee. I have already quit smoking cigarettes. I open the blinds. It will be a beautiful day, for it is a beautiful day everyday, and I drink my coffee silently in my room.

There's a lot of energy in my frustration and my heart is a filter.

I keep my energy within as my negativity seeps out.

Choreography (With All Your Might)

Today is a dawdy day, except the crows and my father talking outside my window. They drift away. I follow them whose dance I find uninteresting.

Grape Saltwater Taffy

If a bastard child were to ever enter a candy shop, he would be unmindful of the ways that things are handled there. The candy shop owner would notice that even a bastard child cannot help, but be thrilled upon laying his eyes on such a delightful collection.

A healthy child’s father buys his son five saltwater taffies. One in each flavor—wood, glass, a needle, stone and grape. The child examines the pieces and declare he does not like grape saltwater taffies, for it is piquant, and the piece is abandoned. (In a tribe of men, the reflections of health cannot be trounced.)

Oblivious of any kinds of gestures, the bastard child burys the grape saltwater taffy in his stomach. He is not thankful, he is not envious, he is not angry and he is not sad. The bastard child knows only of himself. He knows, only, that in order to retain life, one’s stomach must be filled. The bastard child unwraps the grape saltwater taffy and plants it in the earth.

When the initial thrill of the candy shop dies, the bastard child will wobble back into the alley and he will not be seen nor heard. The bastard child has already forgotten about the grape saltwater taffy. And the earth is fed and it is just another day.

Dear Pablo

My soul is a teeny little fetus playing musical chairs alone at night.
Love,
Danny