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

pillowcased dreams.

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

loss and

love 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

page breaks,

ellipses, and

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.