to the hospital for the last time,

he brought his production equipment

and made instrumentals out of everything

in his body that wasn’t ready to die.

The last thing he did on this earth

was make music.

How beautiful it is

to grind yourself into sand,

offer the grain of you

to anyone willing to listen.

Hoping they will carry your debris

into places you’ll never go.

2/30 Sinking

I held you

the way a boat

holds water.

I always felt

us sinking.

1/30 Museum

When you choose to be a poet,

when you choose to spill like this,

bleed like this, cry like this,

your pain becomes an exhibit.

A place for people to walk through

and then leave when they are ready.

No one ever asks a museum

if it’s doing ok.

I’m still

learning

to love

the parts

of myself

that no one

claps for.