I.	
Gunshots and nail polish—
tragedy, at Barbie's dream house
morning dew, without the winter frost 
survival of the fittest 
becomes one wrong look— 
joyrides and bad decisions
laughter, 
play,
childhood without supervision,
minivans reaching ninety miles per hour,
manipulation reaching its apex— 
to love and let die,
again,
and 
again.


II.	
At last, 
picket fences 
and high heels
keep you entrentched  
in light of danger,
nightmares no longer tuck you in— 
this could be your legacy,
your love story
your path to stability,
so stable,
you remain still amongst the quicksand
quick, don’t move!

-AVR 

On days like this,
I am thankful for
my unlimited metro card
who does not judge me
on the basis 
of an undefined destination.

Today is undefined,
a Google search of no results—
Where can one find solace if home
is without meaning?

Three spokes led me 
to a bus,
to a train,
and yet to to another train
I am living cargo, 
a transport of the public
smiling with strangers
because time is finally without consequence.

My phone, a portable ad
yellow pages of unfamiliar surnames
my little Ellis Island
or retirees from the state of friendship.

The night sky will soon be my passenger
but there is only “to” and not “from”
and while I have no where "to go,"
there is urgency
in someone to be.

Will I discover redemption
on the last stop of this train
or until my tires run flat?

I am but a bystander to this reality,
drunk off the havoc
circumventing my stillness,
the perfume of human emotion 
cleansing my fondest memories

I am far from home,
but hopefully an inch, step or stop
closer to me.

-AVR

In medicine, 
we find those unfit
to be frail—
and sometimes
the change is 
instantaneous,
but other times
the decline is gradual

our scrapbook of memories
becomes bedazzled with strangers
our own expressions 
unfamiliar

when did we become so fragile?

Strawberries, 
blueberries, cranberries, 
elderberry, mulberry,
blackberries,

best suited for pies, 
mason jar jams, 
the bar’s garnish,
but no sweeter poison
than that of a gooseberry
rigid amongst Alaskan bushels, 
curiosity will choose its victim.

with puckered lips 
and a tongue to flick
your eyes are widened 
what was that taste?
and why does it linger?
you pick, 
you pluck,
you ponder.

will the children discern 
the sharpness of this harvest?
For this is not round enough
nor plump enough,
nor ripened with will.

the neighbors will mock,
vulnerability will soon flock— 
Your identity is at bay
the residue remains— 
bitter. 
-AVR

I am floating in existence,
belly up 
and doe eyed
curls swaying to their own current
like softly plucked guitar strings,
my thoughts only whisper now

pastel beams
have scattered endlessly
throughout my horizon
softening the drums
of my internal symphony

time must be healing’s currency—
may you please recycle in summer
the old you,
the new you,
the you you've never met
because I promise you
the grass is quite playful
and rhythm can reside in two left feet

trust me,
for I am a pendulum at rest
hollow yet whole
drunk and still driving
my soul, a stereo
a warrior of dreams
and while there is
no fine print to analyze,
no jewels to wash ashore—
one must sink,
one must swim,
and maybe one day,
you’ll float.

-AVR

I, 
on the other hand, 
dream of cozy cabinets 
to store generational impulses 
and endless ceilings that greet breezes through window sills 
in other words, 
a life full of Sunday’s 
where anxiety plays hide and seek behind the days’ chores

and as we span from flatlands to skyscrapers, 
with me as your Julie and you as my Julia, 
each week, 
my thumb becomes a little greener, 
and my curiosity a little wider 
knowing that our midpoint—
somehow always leads to you.

-AVR

I left my “being”
in Amsterdam,
my existence
I have yet to confirm—
is there

buried in between bike grease
and oozy waffles,
lies my most relieving tears

glistening under lampposts,
exhaling under clouds of empathy,
am I a one-night stand?
do you exist only to tempt me?

I will leave my home
my acquaintances,
the "American dream,"
for your freedom and fluidity—

what a courageous blend of
efficiency and chaos,
perusing amongst endless canals
like a host, traveling along my veins

you are a dream Sim city
childhood’s fantasy,
a witty wink in my photographs,

you’ve bruised me
I am but wondrously, 
homesick.

-AVR

Cherry blossoms have a six-stage blooming cycle
before they are full,
delightful to the eye,
nose,
and tongue

They are purely ornamental—
with no quest to solve 
existing in a fragrance 
of whimsy 
and awe

Their window is short 
for what is a week to a cherry blossom 
if not contempt 
to seasons,
stillness,
monotony
to live, enthralled with patience 
and complacency 

I planted a cherry blossom today 
in hopes that you would glance out the window 
and exhale 
oh my gosh, it’s starting to bloom
Look, I think it’s fully bloomed!
Aww man, that was so fast 

oh, how love can grow
till death do us — 
wilted petals. 

-AVR

Sitting at the end of the earth, 
I think this is where I'll stay
I'll choose an oak, 
bolt it to two ropes, 
and hike up my sundress to let my feet swiftly sway.

I'll swing, I'll sing, I'll dance, I'll prance, 
I'll scream "nothing up here can hurt me!"
But indeed my dear, the dark is near, 
the heavens above alert me.

I break my oak into branches, 
and set my soul into conflagration
Mind and body disconnect 
lead the path to my salvation.

But there are no faces here, 
no apologies or temptation
Just me, my swing, and my coward of a brain- 
oh the art of the lost generation.

Our souls in unison,
our battles fought apart
I choose the end of the earth as solitude, 
and they found it in their hearts.

But Comfort is a dangerous and deceitful place- 
with consequences severe
Anxious are the heavens that wait the day-
I'll jump in spite of fear.

-AVR