poetry finds me words unhinged in melatonin miracles that reside in a
cracked projector lens and the soft curls of a projected boy who
spits rhymes in shared atmospheres of breath.
poetry finds me contentment in diaphragms of Greek proportions and
the repetition of inhalation—breathe—exhalation—breath.
poetry finds me creativity in lightning-flashbang-light-bulb-crushed realization that
poetry is not a classicist tongue spoken in the clattered and cavitied teeth of old-rich-white men;
it is much more.
poetry finds me heartbreak in slumbered thoughts and toss-turned regrets hidden in
poetry finds me comfort in swallowed salt water leaks and flushed cheeks
too red for my own good, but mainly—
poetry finds me home in the potholed and police-taped streets of
Chicago’s 63rd and South Side pride.
poetry finds me home in Louder Than A Bomb stages that hold
spilt blood and
a projected boy’s long curls.
poetry finds me home in mic drops and Chuck D’s DJing that brings
cracked-calloused palms and cold-stiffened fingertips together
to tie shared heartstrings of poets in sheltered home of worn stages.
poetry finds me love in a cyclical constellation:
in Instagram-captioned promises,
in cloud streaked sky creations,
in porcelain bathrooms’ twice-shared advice,
in blooper reels’ paused smiles,
in rooftops’ intimate diction,
in coffee stained teeth,
in chlorine drenched depths of pools,
in all of the infinities splashed in
filler episodes of the mundane.
poetry finds me and
clings to my oil and canvas covered skin,
bringing inkblot sensations and expectations.
poetry finds me...i hope it always will.