Magic exists,

I discovered in a soft pink room

in a 20-minute dream

fuzzy heart trace gracing my head

prisms of sunshine falling from zzzzzzz

I awoke restored in the province of fairy

knowing the world magical to be.

And to that girl,

Makenna Rose,

who makes me believe magic exists–

Clad in pink, clasping to spires

She looks to the open sea

Sun a tangerine orb of fire

From guile affectation she's finally free

That which fizzles here on planet's castle

The institutions of music it pervades

They mistake beautiful for fragile

Forgetting her heart is of the glade

Let us together the three sing

in full-lunged triumph to their glower

speeding night to Muse we cling

They forget that warmth, kindness, are power.

to my gorgeous friend, happy late birthday

let Tolkien's light again this year forge your way. <3

Limoncello

A bottle, geometrical glass, its mystical contents contained by wax dripped seven years past.

In it there's brusque matching dresses, white foldout chairs rows upon rows, the beating sun.

An afternoon slathered in sunscreen, swingset haven to our exhilaration.

Crisply: "Be our DJ," and the radio propelled in and out of midday traffic.

Sometimes I wonder where they went– 

and if there's no way of getting them back

what happens when the seal is broken, the bottle empty?

Flat

I can brush off rude remarks.

but I am so unduly tempted to stomp our interactions of late into the ground, to grind them back to where they are alien signifiers disembodied from their gritty reality.

I wish that our interactions could be reduced to a common denominator.

That they could've happened over a wire, with no one to witness.

That they were flattened a good dimension.

That it was a phone call, and that I had the freedom to defend myself with a healthy "Fuck you."

Embracing Truth

Let's go
and
stand in the sun

and face its brilliance

till we're forced to squint through our eyelashes.

Till it permeates our skin
minds and hearts

Till it banishes all
the messy cover-ups
all those pointless games
of hide-and-seek–
because that's all they were
anyways–

games.

Till the light covers everything
and we can finally call ourselves human

without cringing.

Please, let's go now
and declare ourselves to be –

They Ate Pretense for Breakfast

Smattered across the city
like dabs of paint
they woke up
rubbed their bleary eyes
threw on
their outer shells
and opened their fridge doors
BANG
nothing good to eat
but a nice bowl
of arrogance
they gulp it down
and so
they ate pretension
for breakfast.

Laugh it off
and take it
with a grain of salt:

When you can see clear through
to the other side
it's so
beautifully
ridiculous.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SISTER MUSE- you are 21, gorgeous!!

Well here we are, a year past- time has bled

Once again 'tis your day, Anna B. Liv-

Different yet all the same. What can be said

for peace and progress- what does a year give?

Unfortunately all things are not good

And this one night of the year marks again

whence the leering visage of finals stood

trying to barricade beauty and zen

But your 21st, it can't be suppressed

You my darling, you shall celebrate to

Soul's invigorating intoxicating zest

Wishing a beautiful day, babes, to you.

And the most colorful, magical year

To the girl with the words and the sad smile

perpetually dancing on mountaintops clear

Writing world's eulogy on bittersweet isle

She's poetry herself in brilliant flight

Spreads beating wings to our bright universe

In perfect harmony she tells of the fight

The turvy-topsy tale of life; our gift, our curse.

She spreads happiness over golden lands

I love you- always-

we need some adventure, take hold my hand.

<3

p.s. 

Would it be too much of an ambition

to make the birthday sonnet a tradition? ;)

she's the music

The 9-foot grand hangs suspended from titanium wires, a hundred feet above the mountain's crest. She stands with her hands lifted skyward, stretching her arms, back arched, watching the spectacle through squinting eyes as the sun pierces the sky in kaleidoscopic prisms. She sees it through till its gentle landing in the tufty alpine grass, meditating a gleaming sort of wonder, that two of the most beautiful things can exist in a single dimension at a single time. She pulls up the lopsided piano bench, smiles the most fundamental thank you to the person behind the wheel as the engine speeds away, and lowers her hands to the keys.

She closes her eyes as Chopin springs back to life, as the time is counted by the music- midday, beating sun to late afternoon to a violet sunset- and the Schumann concerto ushers in the stillness of dusk. The music is vitality, it shimmers, sparkles, shouts, speaks true conviction as words can't, and she narrates what it is to be alive from atop the mountain, and she is vitality, and the music is her.