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For a sampling of more traditional academic writing, see my writing samples page.
Want to talk poetry and workshop some of your own ideas? Reach out!Questions How many photons do my eyes need to soak up so I can sleep at night? How many molecules a minute? I don’t understand how the period craps take root in my ovaries, before waging all out war on their neighbors, and their neighbor’s neighbors, until I’m one a.m. dogsitting at my almost aunt’s house, writing with fits and spasms under synthetic down. How I was told that fruits and vegetables have zero (0) vitamins, letting that fester a while as I obediently chug the green juice. How writing is gravitiy-filled, laborious, until I get a payckeck for it—at which point I surrender my writing time. k.d. 2/27/23
Ode to Cold Showers I’m starting to realize or maybe I’m starting to feel the bigness what the torrent of ice streaming down on my knobby sleep heavy frame could bestow upon me a lightning bold through me this is too powerfull to pass up the power outlet of a freezing cold shower gasping spinning slowly or immobilized or splashing it over my face or sometimes I can’t help but yelp and I’m standing under the falls in a remote cave looking up to the rocky overhand as it roars I rinse off and emerge full that day or the morning at least my breath moves freer, faster and the murderer waiting crouched in the garage holding a burlap sack breathing heavily and the inch-piled snow on snap branches means another thing to me than otherwise when sleep steeps deeper and the haze remains in my square of the universe of news briefs and hypersonicsuperficialities every morning and even on Saturdays I feel so drawn to the robust soul rinse of ice the hair stiffens breath in urgent sighs which is like unearthing the stuck emotions swiftly and the more I embrace the shock with shudder breaths and helps that have been stuck inside me a slow release of a long overdue primal scream this is the essence of the day so eternally overlooked in a world of climate control and coffee machnes learning this way to swim under the rolling waves inocculated against the turbulence and letting the wet soak deep to your bones emerging gasping you can learn this way rinsing off grief and exuberance this was every dawn then agan and again until free. k.d. 2/19/23
Daily Deaths II The girl feels at home in the forest Crushing beetles underfoot Cradling robin’s eggs in bare hands The deer feels at home in the foothills above the city, nurses her babies, runs from the rustles that are bigger than her. She leaves the den to forage, to make milk for the calves. The doe, who doesn’t yet know the lie of ownership, crosses the glowing highway back to her young. Car hurtling, flesh flying, dead. The girl passes the carcass on her bike. Scrunching her nose. 2/5/23 k.d.
The longing makes me feel like a heroin junkie in one of those 12-step videos who says every one of their waking thoughts circles around to where and when will I get my next hit except it’s where and when can I lose conciousness next the insomniatic overlord cackles at me from on high, a messed up version of that god from monty python, idiot. you’d never lower your surging cortisol levels enough for a cat nap let alone a few hours of sleep.” My vice gripped eyelids twitch incessantly. othertimes it’s when will I sit in the yellowed bathtub and sip on that gallon of Walmart bleach until it’s empty. the jug sits under the sticking linen cabinet, mostly full, coated in a thin layer of yellowed grease and dust. the label peels and bubbles at the edges. we walk the dull streets of mount pleasant. the crossbred rotweiler foams at the mouth, gnawing on the metal lattice as we slump past. my eyes glaze over as I stare at doorway after doorway, countless wrought iron plaques that read dios bendiga esta familia, moving my lips without knowing what was said. the concourses of scurrying thoughts in my head. the momentary ruler of the chaos is a demon yelling at me, you should be lucky enough to survive long enough to be admitted to a mental institution. private, padded cell, no bleach within arm’s reach. I’m not brave enough to drink the bleach. until I escape the hauntingly miniscule town. tell overlord to go fuck himself. meet with the warm therapist I picked out from a series of thumbnails on the insurance website. headphoned, I sob, crack open, gush it to her through the glowing screen. she tells me to tap on my upper arms with rhythm, to commune with that kate in the shadows. her soul lying, broken, and bleeding. I duck under the veil, crouch beside her, stroke her stringy hair. banish the towering overlords and demons. hold her in my arms as the gratitude and honors pour from my lips like jewels: thank you, the strength, the resilience, you survived. she tells me her secrets I shall not share. 1/4/23 k.d.
Learning of Preparations And when the leaves go fresh green ochre then red then shrivly-brown and cripsing so the sign goes out. It may be a subliminal shockwave rippling through the earth. The signal to retract the lifeblood. I think they feel a common ache pulsing through buried threads. Not a time to stretch, collect, crane up to the light. They get busy Wicking chlorophyll from vast, filtering roots. Sipping deeply from the straws of snap-twigs, through stable branches, broad trunk. Percolating richness down to the low and crucial. Bringing the warm aliveness, green chlorophyll and minerals down to the roots. Preparing for the long dark. The chill, the whipping winds, Night dwarfing day When the wanderer grows nervous with the silent screech of the owl. They’re storing the pith, packing the fibers ‘till bursting Serenely settling in for the near death Telling us—you have to trust—with a buried but glinting knowing—that summer was enough. 1/10/23 k.d.
Concerned that my fingertips are too withery like figs, even when I’m not swimming. That I don’t drink enough water, but it’s because there’s an unknown slime gathering on the lid of my bottle that scares me too much to wash out. That my only friend is the clouds—not the streaked pink and sherberty ones when I don’t wake up early enough—but the leaden ones, indistinguishable from the aging sky. I’m not sure if my heart is hurting because of the cortisol surging through it, causing it to thump at what feels like three times its normal speed, or if my in-between-the-ribs muscle is making its existence known for the first time. If dentists are lying to me, are they jabbing the four-inch long numbing needle in my gums so I’ll pay them more? If I stopped going? Would my teeth chip away, grain of sand by grain of sand, until I’m left with gummy knobs? That I’ll never train my toddler mind to stop knocking the blocks over before they amount to anything. That aspens have to teach us how to build community but we don’t know the language of their roots. That when I’m in pain my face looks the way it feels. That when I was in third grade and hit in the face with a dodgeball and stared at my shoes for the rest of P.E., that my face was actually as shoved-in, red, and deformed as it felt. That the voice in my head turns into a robed, hooded creature seeking my downfall. Deploying lead weights to the pit of my stomach. Feeding me thoughts of freefall that bring my shoulders itching up toward my ears and tighten my hip flexors, like my legs are longing for the fetal position. Terrified that if I think too long about what happened the trapdoor would swing, that searching for truthful narratives would send me careening: I need you to say this makes sense, or at least tell me that my hair looks better than you thought it would, even with the wind blowing up through it, hoping that someone even remembers who I was before it went missing, and if this fall will ever end because maybe deadly impact is better than falling through and through. That dogs have it better than I ever will—napping wherever they damn well please. That I’ll never train my toddler mind to stop knocking the blocks over before they amount to anything. That aspens have to teach us how to build community but we don’t know the language of their roots. Terrified that if I think too long about what happened the trapdoor would swing, that searching for truthful narratives would send me careening: I need you to say this makes sense, or at least tell me that my hair looks better than you thought it would, even with the wind blowing up through it, hoping that someone even remembers who I was before it went missing, and if this fall will ever end because maybe deadly impact is better than falling through and through. 11/29/22 k.d.
Pollution-induced Asthma
Air has been routinely leaving me The sparce puff sliding out of my windpipe a couple of seconds too soon The bottom half of my face assembling itself into an emotionless, silent scream My lungs are wracked with a vague memory of how it once felt to be satiated, Now constantly chasing a full measure of oxygen After a slew of blister packs, tiniest beige square pills, and pocket-sized inhalers replete with primary colors Each producing a marginal to negligible improvement Remembering the time when the oxygen flowed freely When my ribs didn’t feel drawn about 3 inches too tightly around my chest I wince when I visualize the two decades of nonconsensual secondhand carcinogens infiltrating my alveoli Consumed nonconsensual, several gulps a second, without moderation or restraint 9/28/21 k.d.
Truce I spoke with her today. Opened the door softly & gently rearranged the stifling comforter to reveal her patchy, exhausted face. Her mouth formed a grin as our eyes met. She sat up & viewed me through her disheveled fringe. I asked if we could talk & she made a sidelong glance at the looming figures in the corner. As I asked them to step out I noticed her brow ease, & shoulders settle down as she exhaled deeply. I asked her why, with an abundance of understanding. & waited & waited She said she was protecting me. All along, she was protecting me. Because she didn’t know how to stop apologizing, because she didn’t let anyone, herself included, take her seriously. The tears started flowing, finally, with a richness & uninhibited down my cheeks. Because she’s simply exhausted & terrified of It’s permanence. She extended a pale, veiny hand and wiped the tears from my face. I asked her what she needed. She looked at me straight-on, grimaced slightly, & asked if I would accept her. She asked if I wouldn't buckle under the Truth. I agreed. I just hugged her and breathed with Her until we were indistinguishable. I opened my eyes. The tears were flowing, with a richness & uninhibited down my cheeks. 5/19/20 salt lake city, utah k.r.
BLACK LIVES MATTER//unleashing the sun came up today. & bit by bit, heaven; previously devoid of all color bled into a riot of rich hue, eventually washed into the royalest of blues. i stopped to talk with the neighbors as i always have, my bike deposited me in the park as it always has, i rested, uninhibited, on the grass, like i always have. this time, this day, for me, though-- it’s different. the ease & calmness of composure which i’ve inherited after a lifetime of getting off scotch tastes a little too strongly like that first stinging swig of a wildly overpriced, imported beverage: served selectively. it almost seems like nothing has changed, but i am constantly wondering how anyone, myself included, is supposed to pretend like we are okay. George Floyd was senselessly murdered. him, & countless others. why don’t i know their names. & i’m terrified because the first time i heard i didn’t flinch. terrified at how dry my well of priceless empathy has become. appalled that this doesn’t hurt more. he is my brother. & here we are, slouched over, dehydrated and glassy-eyed. shooting ourselves full of pain and pleasure for too long-- because, certainly, at some point, we will crumble and crack as our basic human decency evaporates, being left too carelessly alone for too long. then the riot. pulsating rich hues refusing to be crushed any longer. saturday was a sacred yet sickening storm-- a downpour of care; distilled by wringing out every last drop possible from those repeatedly knelt on, shot down, & spat upon. the clouds have been gathering for centuries & we’re pouting we got wet. this is a beginning. k.r. 1 of june, 2020 salt lake city, utah
wondering how i can possess countless selves & praise & mourn them all at once. the well-worn passageway in my mind, a common & repeated belief that exactly where i was is the only place of progression, that somehow obstruction & obsolescence lies ahead, each time, every repeat feels truthful & inevitable. how i can spin a lie to myself and call it reality, regressed inside of myself, inside of that old passage. “yes, but” the minimizing qualifier. muffles hope for progression & keeps me in a tight spiral. k.d. 1/26/2021 21:38 Timberlakes, UT, USA
permission perhaps you are hesitating on the brink of a universe a space is longing now to engulf you. what if it is misinterpreted yet wholehearted embrace of approval begging pleading with us to soften release accept. k.r. 6 of June, 2020 Salt Lake City, UT
reframe what if what you have is exactly what you need. k.r. 14 of June, 2020 SLC, UT
Ligaments you can stretch & bind simultaneously maybe that is how we support our growth, we anchor, & we expand as we tread that delicate line, inhabit that mercurial, silvery space where we expand without exploding k.r. Provo, Utah 24 of August, 2020 17:29
an explanation: The words swell against my chest, knock on my ribcage, bubble up in my stomach, float around in the ether surrounding my ears--they’re a very real and tangible presence I will not ignore. I write poems because I can’t make space for the words inside of myself until I form them a structure. A space from where they can emerge as they would from water, they will glisten and materialize in front of my very heart--a delicate and novel presence. the idea that I have produced anything is purely comical; there is nothing more involved in this than allowing these connected notions to come to as does everything else--in its time, and space, with grace. I cannot yet capture them all, and I am terrified when I think about the millions of concepts I have left shapeless, spaceless, homeless, because I simply failed to make space for them. Maybe they’re sparks sent to me from somewhere; perhaps an epiphany from on high, or a pristine pebble rescued from the rocky bottom. I honor them, I let them be, and nourish their essence, but deny any form of ownership over them They’re living, breathing, independent entities from myself. We are the gatekeepers, the builders, The very best we can be is open, aware and more and more willing to unblock ourselves, our spaces, and let them enlighten us. k.r. Provo, UT 24 of August, 2020 17:44
nobility how can some give? endlessly boundless incomparably truthfully individually the rich bubbling up & gushing forth how do they trade their boredom blank stares measuring scraping isolation for the well, springing eternal, fluid & stable yet shimmering. there’s a reason I’m fascinated with water, then, isn’t there generosity altruism faithfulness seem simply inherent within. k.r. 18:27 Provo, UT
stale The wind blows with a vengeance Looking out across this hazy valley To those westward mountains, deflowered by human hand, gazing with gleaming green eyes The overworked stream still juts through this gully Patiently, in forced companionship with clusters & mobs of plastic & canned exhaustive waste She misses her tall guardian trees Once a constant assuring companion; they now lie in mourning, their very foundation forcefully ripped from under them; a bleeding massacre. Our oxygen is muddy whilst we wrap our faces in man made shields; under some deluded notion of responsibility; we give a haphazard effort at best once the battle’s long lost. The air is fast disappearing. The earth weeps, and yet, the wind blows with a vengeance. k.r. 10.10.2020 13:34
wondering: when your mind is dark, where do you go? where can you go? k.r. 10.15.20
the spark yoga class spine still cranked and gnarled brain awash with uncertainty “what-if’s” and “no more’s” spring off every passing blip of consciousness like fleas. ujjayi breath, she tells me fog the mirror inside, what's that even supposed to mean?? grudgingly squeeze my shoulder blades together, even though there's no way in hell they'll ever lay flat upon my back, with manners and smug alignment like those belonging to every other pristine individual in this sweaty loft. savasana, finally she speaks up life is like a trapeze (she says) (more or less) sometimes you have to let go at the most incredible point of the swing with the hope of another bar awaiting you just beyond it’s terrifying entirely faith based and singularly crucial let go swing there is something new, something more incredible than you might ever imagine but You have to let go. k.r.
sodom, sorrow my past life ravaged by brimstone and fire. choked feeling, a lump swelling rapidly in my throat. tongue drier than bones. the weighty brick sinking down in my abdomen as though quicksand. feeling the want, no, the need, to re read the early chapters. they were so sweet so comfortable how can I turn the page how can I walk on, walk away. my pearlescent past glimmering like a banner in the wind slipping out of my grasp the future could be more gritty, more accusing. turn back- “And Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human. So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes.” (Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five) k.r.
deep blemished cheeks, curved intentions, glassy eyes we live in an age of channeled boredom jaded glares believing we’ve been swindled out of something an abstract idea of an obscure if→ then that somehow encapsulates the final redemption of happiness self victimized deflecting our dissatisfaction with smug superiority amid waiting meticulously staging a picturesque, narcissistic reflection of “self” composed of light and pixels amassing hordes of digital “relationships” yet afraid to give your best friend a hug and remind them how much they mean to you we are terrified of joy because of that deep-seated paranoia surrounding its eventual termination. remember impermanence is beauty embrace the awkwardness embrace the vulnerability embrace the undeniable fact that you have literally no idea what you’re doing (you’re not alone) embrace that fleeting moment of imperfect joy embrace your special people eventually, you will let go but the greatest tragedy is in not reaching out and discovering in the first place beaming cheeks, true intentions, gleaming eyes k.r.
SATI (Sanskrit word for awareness/mindfulness) An igniting beautiful power of tenderness Felt in those hazy moments Sun flare Pollen Doubled over in laughter Its origin lies in the union of Time and vulnerability Embrace. Embrace! It’s happening. Not replaying what is past, Not attempting in vain to gaze into crystal spheres of unknown Creation only occurs in that most fertile of time frames It’s happening. A unifying, beautiful power of tenderness- k.r.
OBERSTEINBERG a hearty, resilient stream meanders down the hillside it leaps over stones, through crevices, carries lifeblood all the way through to it’s slenderest veins without discretion feel the cool tendrils of the water embrace your tingling fingertips think about nothing, be open to everything I realize, now, there maybe such a thing as Eternity k.r.