New Design

Dear readers (if there are any),

I wanted to let you know, quite obviously, I’ve changed the look of the blog a little… I hope you all like it. My project is coming along pretty well. I now know intimately how awful it is to have an awkward blog where I stand up here… essentially naked. To all the bloggers of the world: congrats. I’m sure this gets less strange over time! (Or maybe we just get more strange and that’s how we can stomach it).

More to the point, I wanted to encourage you all to post (anonymously if you prefer) any work of your own that you would like to share with me and the poets reading along with you. I promise if you post a poem or a photo that there will be a discussion about it led by me… even if I have to just tell you how wonderful it is. This was, after all, intended to be a conversation and not the Emilee show. So, if you would indulge me, talented poets of my readership, be brave and show me your hearts. I promise your work is beautiful; I assure you that the possibility of this being fun is rather high!!

On a less cheesy note I thought I would share my playlist for writing so it might inspire you. I tend to listen to a weird mix so bare with me. But lately these are the songs that tickle my fancy. I will post the Youtube links as well in case you’re like me and hate downloading music.


Florence and the Machine–Heavy
–Dog Days (This video is hilarious btw… oh hipsters)

Imogen Heap–Propeller Seeds
–Shh (The video with this one is weird but its the whole song… so ya know)
–Wait it Out
–Song that Never Was

Cepia–Hoarse (this has a wonderful video too)
–The Undeniable Bend
–Salt Flats

Andrew Belle–In my Veins
–All Pretty Lights
–Be Your Breeze

Sara Barealis–The Light
–Bottle it Up
–Hold my Heart

If you click on them without telling your browser to open a new tab it’ll take you away… so you have to promise you’ll come back. I tried to pick ones without pesky ads to send you to… I ignore the videos most of the time anyway.

They’re a little mellow but they might help!! Let me know what you think and if you guys like this kind of thing!! enjoy the weekend and as always keep writing!!

Poem 60

i’m sorry i never write about you, S, but this is why
…more substance.
I regret
that nothing
comes across
quite like arms
around an epiphany.
I worry
that poetry
cannot capture
these intricacies
of twinkling reality.
Our names
etched starward
smudged out with
the palm of broad
cosmic hands.
put me in a box
in the back of your
closet; wear me on your
shoulders and tell
no one.
This is the less than
fairytale ending we
reinforced with whispers.
I regret nothing–
I only wish there had been…

Poem 59

growing up sucks. we’ll get there.

I opened the eye of the universe to watch the summer flicker
Downward like a hand-full of crinkled paper.
Some are mindful of the season changes; others are simply mindful.
As if she touched the tips of those trees with her lighter
The charred essence ethereal of their descent captures me yearly.
As a child entranced as they dance she points them into step with
Her little un-ringed finger. She thought perhaps she would be more graceful;
I want to tell her: it’s falling. When you stand again, then, they will applaud.
Meet My Twin Poem: Poem 73 Revised

Poem 58

we might have had a conversation about it, and i never even knew it
Some days I awake to the sound of my breath and remember
so vividly a nightmare–one year’s past–of a boy with a bottle
of rum hum drumming against a summer sky.
These are the buds that would grow amongst the bones.
These are the petal faces, purse lipped around pretense
This was is the proper way to grieve:
A man with a camera in his hand; all irises on me….
these are the bones, I told them, we are the bones.
If defeat came in lollipop flavors it might resemble
a regretful bled of cherry and grape; some medicine
we feed our psyche night following night
with robust hopes of satisfaction through masochism.
These are the bones, I told them, we are the
candy wrapper crustaceans foraging the ocean floor;
 the pastel public painting clown faces on our cheeks.
In my sleep-voice we still speak of ambitions:
I would write your name across the water if
I could spin webs from my fingers; I would
Speak my mind to the middle night if I did not
Fear his reply; knowing still what he’ll say to me:
We are the bones, darling, these are the bones.

Poem 57

upon realizing it might have only taken the lesser half of an hour…

If time is your master, I would bottle him up like a puffer among seaweed to
watch him bloat his gills, and once tiresome, recede as hydrants often do.

If time is the price of passion, I might hoard away the barrels mingling of
grape-seed and oak exchanging them only for the moment best articulated

of love. If time is your current I would sail away with a hanker-chief wrist
wrapped toward the headwind and hope secretly for gail-less sails. For give me;

if time is the better man of us both then let him survive this middle-land betwixt
honor and malice where one word means a lifetime of mumbling truth. If time

could swallow up all these breezing bitter words–whipping the lobes of our ears
then let it gulp too the bitter still on my reluctant tongue. You decided again… but

if time is what I ask of you in the be-silent still of night. Then in the very least, look
to your heart and lend me that minute you’ve been saving in your pocket.

Poem 56

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for W, upon receiving a returned letter

Where we Thought we might be Headed…

These are the things that didn’t make it through the mail:
                         Lifelines and telephone strings;
Chords that come and go with complacence;
         Commonplace apology formalities, fringing;
                                All the web worthy searches seizing time.
     It doesn’t fit four-cornered like we hoped it might.
                Especially since the envelope reads all too truly:
                           Attempted— destination not known. 


Poem 55

It has been brought to my attention that people are actually looking at the blog. Thanks guys. I hate blogging as much as you hate reading crappy blogs, so thanks for sticking around… On a more important note there is one person I’m flattered to say printed out my poem and showed it at a very important event that I could not attend… so thank you!! I hope I can meet you someday!!

This one’s for Grammy!!

upon forgetting all salutations, there is this
lacking nothing knowing nothing; i lack and know my heart.
be still flicking match-fingers and well worn toe-less shoes
it was the bruise that lasted eternal not the fall… after all…
we fall in love with the past over and over before we realize
seasons have matured…

cured. of all redemption, the rise

and fall of sunlight is finally free to symbolize nothing but itself.
two score before my parents wed my father held the branches of three
trees: apricot, peach, loquat; their sapping cylinders fresh-leaking of life,
with his knife bore them holes together, and bound them with left-over string.

they grew entangled, like the knots of unkept ambition, their fruition
was never compromised by their scars. Here we are. Walking around
like we might be some fallen trees, but you and i know the best part about
broken branches: they must grow back.

Poem 55 Revised Poem 55 Edited

Poem 54

upon realizing this is about to get WAY more awkward…

She kicked down the no trespassing sign
and aerated those photo-albums in her high-heels.

No bearded men talk about the wreckage of
decisions, only the go forth of American wisdom. Fools.

We can’t laugh about it yet, but we can have
face powder conversations on the public trans.

If my mother had sat me down and tried to explain integrity
she would have gnawed her tongue off before it reached her cheek.

If I was dying in the street I know five people who most definitely would
leave me there. That’s the truth about growing up. Enemies grow

out of friends. You don’t know what that’s like until
you have to stare someone down and ask for forgiveness…

I’m sorry I’m not sorry for feeling sorry for you:
It takes two to compete over a boy and oh boy was he worth competing for.

So there it is. East coast sentimentality and sopping clothes,
face to face with everything I hate about my self, attempting

to order coffee just became a contact sport. Counting down
the days until reality set in; realizing counting is my new reality.

Please, darling, if we’re not going to be friends, do try
not to poison me…yes, that’s what I said, soy milk.


Poem 53

no matter where i go, nevada will always be home


All the history I know

is the way the dust blows

cutting at the face of the earth.

Conflict-construct deducts

from the sand-sculptors I find

to capture filthy the free—

Send off didactic calligraphy—

the lights seem to me brighter in my wisdom.

Boyhood and summer becomes them; I am

not a boy… I can’t appreciate this moment:

westward-boot leather-toe, like you can.

Wrinkled furrows of manifest, resent not

only the meager syllabic meanderings of verse

or worse, the sounds of unraveling

minds. mines. Mine. We don’t speak

of the syrup we pulled from the Rockies—

Instead revel in man’s triumphant sun-bulbs

blushing dry meadows with life. Nothing survives

but we—ay sayers—dehydrated sipping on silver.