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the sky is made of a deep lavender and swirls of separated light and tonight i listened to the music we did, danced to the coffee and uncatena, watched as sylvan esso brought me back. i had a date with me during the debacle. it went horribly, resembling more booger than boogie. she left mad … Continue reading
and suddenly, you’re 32, and you don’t recognize where you are, and you have been to many places, and you think there are still more to go to, and maybe you are overcome by greed and selfishness and a home that is not your home but that has halls that are filled with all the … Continue reading
dear dear, i used to not think of the generous geography i’ve been given. those cutaways of fat and flesh, those with names i am just sloppily learning. where once stood an abandoned muscle is now the purposeful rectus abdominis. where fat, camper’s fascia. where emptiness, a physiologic peritoneal space with the utmost magical embryologic importance. a rotation, really. a … Continue reading
Dear dear, I have seen that beautiful life. Over these ten days, I have woken alongside the miracle of you, watched the light linger a little longer on the horizon of your back, held the fruit you shared with me like a lover’s chin, laughed at the jokes I couldn’t always understand but still found … Continue reading
Dear dear, I think of my life in two ways. On one side there is an immense tragedy of the unfulfilled, the deadening day where I watch myself sink into misery and depression, where I am cheated on, abused, and brutalized, where I am convinced I am nothing, and where there is mediocrity displaced greatly, … Continue reading
Dear dear, I adore you. I have to start with that common, misused, adorned phrase for sometimes, the most obvious facts bear repeating. Against the falseness, they barrel through. Against the swell of disappointments, they ground. Against me, I hope there is you, adored and yourself. I mean all of it. All of you. You … Continue reading
Dear dear, Kurt Vonnegut wrote that the best piece of all of literature was from King Lear. When the climax is winding down, and the characters have shown themselves to be vile, and there is nothing left to salvage, King Lear perishes. Among all the metaphors and metonyms and entire neologisms that Shakespeare could have … Continue reading
Dear dear, I am drunk and I am happy and I am in love. Most of my writing should be this easy breathing. It should wet your lips as you say the words. It should remind you that I want to wet your lips. But I get undrunk much of the time. I am not … Continue reading
On the stand is me. Much of the battered light beats shadows into my face. There is no judge, no jury. The room is empty, save for a sole typist’s typewriter that is blue on the exterior shell and a grey, hard metal on its keys. A faded wood from the Deco era panels the … Continue reading
You, Everyone knows there is no real thing as poetry, that it is effectively useless, that it fails in the practical like brushing one’s teeth or in stopping a man jumping off from the ledge, but still, during these hospital days, I think that too many are suffering from what is kept within a good … Continue reading
Mizpellt wurdz 