Mount Olympus

For D.P.H.


it's the rain that makes

the flowers grow

and death dies itself when a fearless, feeble

warrior dies.

similarly, the rain that falls

today, tonight,

reminds me of you, looking at the same moon as I


and death dies itself when a fearless, feeble version of me



Two stray cats walk into the moon and beyond.

My world is an alleyway,

a series of washed-up stained photographs that don't make sense,

(and I'm trying to make sense of them—I really am)

and the smell of coffee. That goddamn coffee gets me everytime.


the coffee makes sense.


we are utterly ordinary.

we are utterly infinite.

we are part of the universe, molecules of air and water and hope,

particles of matter.

we are utterly hopeful.

we are utterly extraordinary.


Life looks beautiful when you're in love.

Crooks are not crooks, they're just misguided.

Chipped cups aren't chipped, they're just special.

Your oddities are charming, like the chipped cup, or the coffee,

the coffee that you heated yourself

and drank in the morning (because you couldn't stay awake otherwise),

and that I tasted when I went for

my daily fix of you.


You are the coffee to my chipped cup,

the infinity to my extraordinary life.

You are the world with no boundaries;

I am the rain that makes the flowers grow.

I am the cat in the alleyway,

watching the misguided men be named a "crook"

by other misguided men

who don't believe

that the series of stained photographs

makes sense.

You are made of

particles of light

and molecules of hope

and you are the universe

and the universe is you.