6. Avery

(Author's note: This poem is for and about my friend Avery, whose birthday is today. I post it as today's poem in honor of him.)

His veins are filled with music and with stars.

His thoughts are filled with emptiness and flow.

His voice is made of dusty old guitars.

His mind’s a rusty cog that clanks below.

And these affects and gifts with which he’s blessed –

Or cursed, as alternately it may be –

Are some well-known and some yet unaddressed,

And they determine all that he must see.

But when his veins must open up and burst

And when his thoughts in dark directions fly,

When all his voice can do is preach the worst,

When all his mind can think to do is die –

It gives him pause to check himself and breathe.

May he stay in this world and never leave.