i want to
write less deliberate
poetry-- stop
asking myself what
the poetry is 
saying
& walk out bare foot
in the powdery snow--
the kind that is
so light that it
doesn't melt at
first & you're tricked
into believing
you could use it
to fill your pillows--
i'll sleep damp &
cold-- i want
to listen
to my mother
when she asks
me if i'm warm--
i want to be
able to say no--
no i'm not
all that much better--
no i haven't
stopped
keeping track 
of calories on
my phone--
no i didn't know
it was going to 
snow this morning--
no-- i don't
know anything
about driving
in the snow--
i slide at the 
stop signs--
i want to learn
to use my heart
as a paper weight
sometimes--
set it
out on my desk--
turn the fan up
higher to keep 
me company--
read aloud 
when i'm alone--
talk to myself
more-- ask
him questions--
laugh at his 
naked body
in the fogged
bathroom mirror--
pray my
chest into clay--
not that earthy
clay from 
the souls of rivers--
i mean that 
un-natural crayola
clay that reenacts 
the primary colors--
this year i want
to re-learn
how to make purple
& orange & green--
trust 
the water colors--
dry like oil
& by that i mean
refuse
to dry-- 
i want to 
be inconvenient this
year-- i want
to write more
poems on stickie notes--
more poems 
in sharpie
on my own skin--
i want to 
write about 
the stars less--
re-kindle
a reverence for
the image of the
moon & her
audacious womanhood--
when it snows
i want to write
about it because
when it snows
it snows & it snows--
i want to be
less afraid 
of silence &
the 1402 unread messages
waiting on
my elementary school
email--
i want 
make morning love
to my own
faint shadow--
cut her hair &
kiss her forehead
before 
she goes out to
play in her green
snow suite--
what is there left to
write about anyway?
i want to stop 
worrying about how
long my poems are--
if they reach the
rafters or
if they resemble 
the white chairs
in the kitchen i
used to use 
to crack
eggs on the side 
of the bowl 
when my mother &
i baked pretzels--
i want to
be imperfect this
year-- i want
to write 
more cliches--
more cliches 
about love--
it's all been written
hasn't it?
everything there is
to say about us--
refer to romeo 
& juliet or
pablo neruda--
i want to drink
less poison--
live entirely 
for summer-- 
sweat 
unapologetically--
this poem is 
not a resolution 
this poem 
is a handful
of that
soft snow--
the kind of snow
no good for packing--
no good for becoming
men-- 
not even
really fit to
be angles--
you can't
throw this
snow-- you can't
even
really form it 
into anything
at all--
even my foot 
prints to my car
are quickly
covered
by
the wind-- 
yes i run
in the morning--
yes i'm 
vulnerable--
yes my voice
is as clumsy as 
my teeth--
i don't really 
know where this
poem is going--
i want to
know less about
where each poem
is going
or if it ends 
clean or
radical--
i'm not a 
"drop the mic"
kind of boy--
this is a poem--
a cold stone
bench 
to sit on &
wait 
for the bus--
a poem waiting
for nothing or 
everything--
this year i want
i want
i want