Please, Try to Be Fucking Interesting

Be fucking interesting.

Have a story to tell

and an anecdote handy, goddamnit.

Be ready to jump into the soul

of the person across from you

and share something more

intriguing than the weather

or gossip or the latest

spirit killer from popular culture.

Read a bloody book.

Take a hike.

Commune with the ocean.

Watch the poor teenager

at the discount store roll her eyes

at her grandmother, who is trying on

all the purple dresses.

Think about how your grandmother

made you comb your cowlick

or dress for church

and then there was her famous

albondigas after.

Remember how her house smelled like

roast and White Shoulders

and how teenage missy

will wish she had those loving

arms again some day.

Try to act refreshing.

Not because you know all the cool things

or because you’re just nice,

but because you walk arm and arm

with adventure and observation.

Life is a cabaret, old chum.

Did you notice?

Would you have noticed,

if your face weren’t glued into

that personality-ruining screen?



Shut Up and Write

We all come from broken childhoods

neglected, tormented, lonely, discouraged.

We’ve all lived through certain heartbreak

tragic melancholy, hope irreparably shattered

We’ve all suffered through loss and

inundation. Life is too much, often,

and disproportionately.

Yet this doesn’t make us average,

or even mundane.

Most people find the strength in themselves to

conquer these mountains,

but we summit these experiences

and feel compelled to tell the stories

until the hurt seeps out of us

and we can write

our own new endings.


As she lay dying

I understand

that I can’t be

the reason she lives for.

She has to fight through

this on her own,

finding her own reason

to keep those old hands working,

that weary heart to beating.

And I, too, must search

now, to find my reason

to be here.

One that doesn’t include

spending my life

seeking her love,