after a while I get tired of the sound of my voice my inner monologuing that striving to prove me right that need to see in your face that you understand me respect me think of me as smart and necessary to the conversation I am talking to you and regretting the way my voice makes me feel its leaving my throat and how I wish I could take back what I said please don’t think I’m an idiot an imbecile bête brute I’m having an off day I didn’t get enough sleep last night I had something else on my mind the sound of my voice distracted me as I responded I forgot the question what was the question now I’m searching for the question the quest for the sweet spot the word that makes me feel I belong in this space the quest for utopia a word that means perfect place and no place


paint it black



oil leaks

from my motor-



the word

floods the banks,

muddies up my

interpersonal relations


I thought this flow

a currency:

specie as body as barter

once every breath






you spirit away,

lungs full

of my story


to live here

means I let you

breathe it easy

Theorizing the City

birds winging it

skyline, eyeline

things are looking




late for work by only two minutes

two ticks

two shakes

two gearshifts



against the desk

the wheel

the etcetera

the lonely

hum two bits

of measure


you mouth

your deepest secrets

or just

your name

but white noise



our proximity

Song Ceramics

Write my story, you say.

In what language? Tone? Style?

I haven’t written in a long while.

Got butterflies in my stomach.

Noodles for fingers.

Other day, I

Caught up with Ellip-

Sis choked me out

Like I owed her.

I own the

Whistle between my teeth but

Not the music

It sweeps the street with.

My stomach is empty, my pockets, your gaze is, and sky

Holds no mysteries to untangle,

An everyday cloud cover,


Ready or not or not or


Moment barrels down,

Capitalizes (on) this,

This Room, This

Instrument of Creation,


knock on wood.

Would you

Do me a solid?


Your face


My story don’t write itself

When you lookin

At me, bold-faced.

I don’t know

The dog slips under the fence.

The fence falls all over itself.

I peg it with an entity of teeth.

My teeth fall all over.

Fall out of.

My head is out of step with.

Its elastic rhythm.

It won’t snap back.

It is a long way down.

The dog scrapes his back trying to get under.

It is the color of coffee that burns your tongue.

It squeezes itself out of sight.

It is nine o’clock at night.

Someone is howling and wolfish.

He’s got a grin like pitch black.

Lips pulled back and voice rumbling coal.

I have nothing to say to it.

It has no reason to be.

It calcifies anyway as broken bone.

Or broken spine.

The dog is slippery and hides.

Out of sight, I see him loud.

As if through sharp and flat grass.

I’m not ready to dive.

I’m not equipped indeed.

I tell you what you already know.

No weapon formed against me.

Me shall prosper.

Me shall scrape and stretch my neck.

Me shall break my back underneath.


Might us flit into night sky?

Might us wanderlust?

Wonder: what lust we might lust.

What see we see, might come after or before we?

What scale we scale?

What life we life?


To crack.

The bowl like an egg.


Admirably vulnerable.

I can’t turn my back.

I can’t turn back.

I won’t.

I want.

I water my needs.

I wear down.

It’s a long way.

If you can get up.

A tall order.

Remember it only takes a posthaste.

To fence you in.

Membrane by membrane.

Post by post.

Hate to haste.

But time.

What time?

Does comb.

What comes?

My hair.


My doorstep is littered with blades of grass.

But you already know.

How much I need.

To bear witness.

Left to right.

Length by width by candlelight.

If there is valley, I’m there.

If there is death, I’m there.

If there is shadow, I’m there.

Or elsewhere.

Or everywhere.



Keeping my eyes peeled.

For further developments.

For sly dogs slithering.

For children weeping like wolves.



How forward of me.

To assume my everywhere eyes.

I see only what I understand.

To exist.

Sí, sí, sí.

Claro pero si.

Si…quand…je n’existe plus.

Je ne devrais pas être surprise.

Que la vie continue.

Sans moi.

Sans mes yeux.

Sans mon cou.

Sans ma voix.

Qui chante.

Dans la nuit.

Sur les nuageux.

I am afraid.

Of cloud cover.

Those hands.

That hide me.

& retreat.


Loss: “a vague knot-of-air kind of thing”

Each time [the memory] appears, it delivers a kick to some part of my mind. ‘Wake up,’ it says. ‘I’m still here. Wake up and think about it. Think about why I’m still here.’

from Norwegian Wood

When you wake up, have you ever looked around the room, seen that everything was in its place–nothing had been disturbed as you slept, nothing had been stolen or had gone missing–but you still felt that you had lost something over the course of the night?

I slept for eleven hours. There were times in one of my many dreams that I felt “This is a good stopping point. I could wake up. It might be time to get up.” But I kept the illusion of the dream going. If you can manage to keep your eyes closed, time will fly by. Maybe this is what I wanted, on some level.

A gang of friends and I moved from dream to dream, alternating between wheelchairs and gas-efficient cars. I expected us to arrive at my house eventually, where I would see my family. In what must have been the last dream, we visited my high school. I waved to and talked with people I knew. Everybody was there, even those I remembered from kindergarten, even those I didn’t know. Faces whose names I had forgotten popped continually into view as we rolled through the campus. There was a line of cars on our way out, so we had to wait. The dream splintered and instead of sitting in the car, waiting for those in front to move along, we found ourselves inside the school building, confronted by a steep flight of stairs. We took turns rising from our wheelchairs, walking carefully down, holding our chairs aloft. Then we rolled/ran like mad to the car outside. As I reached the door handle, I realized that I had reached the car door many times before and that wherever we drove next would get me no closer to my house. Then and there, the scene faded to black, in the way that it does when I have slept for a long time and the dream has not resolved (or will not resolve) itself. Instead of lying patiently in the dark, extending my sleep despite the expired dream, I opened my eyes.

I didn’t get to see my family but, for several sleep cycles, I was never alone. I don’t just mean that I was always in a group. I mean that I was among friends, people who wanted what I wanted and went along with me to try and get it. So, when the dream dissolved and I opened my eyes to an empty room with all of my things resting right where I left them, I took it as a sign of absence.

Most of those people exist in real life. I could contact them through Facebook or text them right now, if I wanted. But that’s not the point. They, in real life, could never be with me in the way that they were in my dream. They have their own lives and minds to inhabit and could never truly accompany me in my own.

As I’m writing this, I notice that the reverse is equally true: That I have my own life and mind to inhabit and I can accompany myself. The people appearing in my dreams are versions of me because they were fashioned from my unconscious. The gaggle of friends that never left my side for eleven hours seems to be a metaphor for my own mind. I can never be closer to someone that I am…to myself.

I watched a TEDx video the other day called “The person you really need to marry.” The presenter finished with this: “The way I see it, it’s like I took myself to the top of a mountain or maybe to the bottom of the ocean, and I got down on one knee and I said, ‘I’ll never leave you.'”

When you don’t particularly like yourself, this can be a maddening acknowledgment. But I know the one thing I can admire about my mind, is that it is there when I need […]