Notes of a poet on surviving the market.

it is dangerous to build a cross

of parts — salty swollen wood -

inside us

do not find the red romantic when

when you spit

it in the white basin

every morning

wondering if you can

call them red poppies in a snowfield

every shaking, every trembling

do not twist them into a crown

do not build an altar out of your sadness

for them to pray

do not shatter your innards

for the pennies they will throw

tell them the magician is on leave today

there is no trick

the show must not go on

there is no one to tip the hat today

no one hungry for your applause

know that our hands are not clean

either — a market runs

on supply and demand

they will come with wrong labels

and stickers for our jars tell them

darkness only flails in a pool of

identity crisis

it does not fade

if they call it light

it is not light

but heavy

and today I am

not going to lift

I am sitting


will they still

come to watch?

Student, writer, poet, spoken word artist.