Made from the rib of man, made by God to cleave to man, you are all soft insides and secret smiles and loud laughter. You beautiful, coveted creature, I beg you: do not make yourself less. You are made for more.
There was a buang in the old house on Mahogany Street.
When I am depressed, I cannot move. And right now, as I write this, six days have passed since I felt myself falling into it. The problem is placed. What, I wonder, must the solution be? What must I do when I cannot move?
In Palu, Indonesia, the death toll of more than 1400 people continues to rise as rescue efforts turn out unfruitful. And there is nothing I can do about that.
Constrained by the pressures of life and learning, I feel as if I have no time at all to write. Shackled to my responsibilities, tethered by my moral belief that I have to do my responsibilities, I cannot write.
“i don’t like them
they’re all i seem to make”
I wrote this poem while I was eating out alone. The seat across me was empty, and I felt a lack, somehow.
“Awaken, Sleeper” is a poem that serves as a warning to those who are asleep, to the non-believing, unenlightened souls of this world. It is also a heavy warning to those of us who are already awake, because I believe we are in the last of our days. Dearly Beloved: we must keep watch; and to those still sleeping: awake!
An essay about Montaño sardines. Because why not?
Who you are and how busy you are should not be an impediment to your honoring God. We can honor God even while we do our laundry.
Today, while I was grocery shopping, I saw an old man buying his own.