Our Quantum Entanglement

Black holes
can bend
a universe.

No amount of light
can escape a galaxy’s
human-like shift
toward darkness.

One minute
on the edge
of a black hole
is 700 years
on earth.

The pull of desolation
is too heavy,

the path ahead
has spun out of control,

the cosmic flow
a cataclysm

while light, sound,
and energy
get warped,

and every single
piece of matter
is torn apart.

Does anyone find it
that a
will ask you
to prove you are
not a robot?

Does anyone know
what it’s like
to not feel

There are days
when I don’t have
the energy
to check
the box,

because I’ve been
plugged in
and programmed
for sadness
so long

that anxiety attacks
and attaches itself
to my thoughts
like a computer virus.

It clings to,
and disrupts
the way I feel
about any
and everything
that I touch,

like these new
majestic wrinkles
around my eyes,

or the tiny
iPhone screen
I keep
to somehow prove
that I am not a robot.

To somehow prove
that I am human.

To somehow prove
that I matter.


The sky never takes a bad picture

even though it is constantly

shifting the way it looks.

Its beauty somehow perfectly

moves through time, seasons, and

every single wind of change.

I hope that if you dream about

being the sky, it will not be

a nightmare. I hope that you will

not think of the stars on your

Black face as pimples, because

you are a force of light matter

simply shadowed by a mountain

of heavy. You are the sunflowers

still growing in the backyard

of a funeral home. You are its first

taste of cool rain after a

South Carolina summer. & if you

can’t imagine the sun telling you

to take another photo because it

wasn’t shining at the right angle,

I invite you to reflect on it and

remind yourself: The fact that it

shines at all matters. The fact that

it shines on you matters.

Sports allows men
the permission
they need to talk
to each other
with any kind
of emotional depth.

If fatherhood
doesn’t link them,
then a football will,

as hard stats
fall from our mouths
like notes
of a hard rock
because music is also
one of the few ways
men will talk
to each other
with any kind
of emotional depth.

With loud,
bullhorn breaths,

as if debating
who the greatest
football player
of all time
is the only thing
that matters!

As if debating
who the greatest
guitar player
of all time
is the only thing
that matters!

Perhaps God
is in the notes
that echo
between us
when we
talk to each other.

Perhaps God
is the information

The code.

The scorekeeper.

Intimacy in

Our music
linked across
light years.

It’s ironic:
All of space becomes
an endless boundary
when gravity’s pull
grabs the body of a planet
and forces it into a decaying
downward spiral –
spinning, reminiscing,
reflecting, and
holding on
to time
before it is lost forever.

When that happened to me,
the years of my life became quicksand:
slipping through the branches of my hands

because my fingers started looking
like limbs from an old pine tree

because I think it’s weird that
sunflowers look up at me for

because my voice suddenly deepened
into an almost earthly tone –
too cool to spit fire,
but not too ashamed
to gnaw on the ashes of the past.

I’m often too preoccupied
with changing the furniture
in my prison cell mind
to somehow get a better view of the world,

but I’m smart enough
to not take myself too seriously
because even after zooming in
on every little thing that matters,

there’s a part of me
that can imagine
this galaxy as a
single grain of sand
on an endless beach.

I can zoom out and think about
a black hole and its one-way
love affair with planets.

I am amazed at all of the ways
in which we choose to
connect to each other.

I have the hope that
on the other side of a black hole,
there is an alien world
that worships the same God,

& I can consider all the possibilities.

all of the the paradoxes of
knowing that everything that
I think may matter,
and everything
that I think is matter,

might not
matter at all.