I wrote this on a January morning, before the sun had come up. I was tending to my son, who wakes us up each morning before we’d like to be up. He is my daily work, and a reason why I’ve tended to smaller pleasures lately. This poem is an incantation for both more wildness and more restraint, qualities that I suspect I’ll need by the bucket this year. Read more
I won’t discriminate—short, long, near, far—I’m speaking to you all. How many of you will there be? I don’t know, cannot say, am unable to divine, shall not speculate upon. But I hope there will be many of you, even if they are wholly in my mind. Read more
Dear Blank and Indifferent Universe, It’s only January into our second Covid year but I’m already so tired, from having lived in a brain that constantly shoots off like a palpitating rabbit into future, yet unlived months. Seeking survival; seeking a safe place to take one’s cause and one’s people. Is August a safe place to land? September? Is December safest of all? Give me a place to land. Read more
I don’t know what I want. I want many things big and small. But I don’t know if I really want them. My most frequent answer to most things is “I don’t know”. Or at least it used to be. Read more
Dearest S, Thank you for your letter. I would dearly love to handwrite and illustrate my reply but post offices seem so far away by foot here. What do I want? I want sex. Sex is integral to being a Being and not feeling like a cup or a plastic clock or something with eyes and two legs. Read more
