lingua franca

yours is a language
i’m sure i’ll never fully master

that’s not to say
i don’t wish to try.
to spend years in the study
of your complex and morphing

your syntax hidden behind
a script inscribed deeply within
the moving and folding of skin
on your face.

for now we’ve only a fledgling pidgin
to get us by.


Roberto Bolaño on writing short stories. (via)

Consejos del maestro

the only tattoo i’ll ever get.

And some things you do, well you’ll be living with them forever. Because not everything can be deleted, made to disappear. No - you’ll have a shadow on your back like a poorly thought-out tattoo. And even if you’ve gone through the trouble of cleaning up the spilled ink, you’ll be left with scars that can tell you in a second that what you’ve done remains, caught in spindly tissue. Part of growing up is learning that you can’t exclude yourself from the rules that you’ve placed upon others, not without rotting. And when you come to love someone, to really wish for their happiness and not just your own, then you’ll also feel worse than ever before. You’ll feel worse than you did on mornings when only your bladder could rouse you out of bed, when you marked off another day on the calendar even before putting on pants, when you daydreamed and fiddled with the polka-dot ring in your pocket. Here in flesh and bone, where the scar still shows up now and then, nestled between more capricious meetings of skin - now it aches, burrows deep below the skin to fester as doubt, the most sinking of feelings. And although scars are ugly, and though they often tell stories that we wish we could hush, they’re not disabling. I’m not promising that the rugged skin will ever be beautiful - it won’t, it’s not. But treat it like a badge of dishonor, make vigil of its thorny implications, and avoid causing any new ones. Let the future print lines as part of the tattoo covering that self-inflicted disfigurement, and maybe you’ll get the chance to live with them forever.

On The Cusp (Zine)

hey guys so i will be making a short, prose-y apperance in chicago-based on the cusp paper-print zine. you can click the link above to order previous copies or you could wait for a little bit and check back and buy the copy that i will appear in! i’ll be sure to post again when the 5th issue “Hunt” is available for order. check out their website and support local, independent publishing! okay thanks.

the worth/waste of sleep

3 poems and a writing thing.

the worth/waste of sleep

3 poems and a writing thing.

thinking feelings
and trying to destroy them
in the same instant

the smearing of a face
onto paper and hoping
for anything to come back

some tracks of the currents running
silently through porous capillaries
overwhelming the nervous system

piecing apart the ability
to file under the mental label

i don’t think i’m missing anything.

sunset filtering through
an agricultural haze
and the burnt in red of exposure
riding in our cheeks

single-use camera shots
and near misses on the freeway.

no -
i don’t think
i’m missing anything.

flexing of speech.

i’ve come to the river
looking for floating directions
but there are only old and silent
rocks here.

it is difficult to realize
you don’t want to fuck something up
when that’s all you’ve known.

nowhere will i find it written,
except perhaps in the delicate ring
of bunched iris circling within
your eyes.

but who’s to say
that muscles speak?

i want to claim
your tongue had told me
- that’s a muscle too.


Life is happening again at the kind of velocity that doesn’t allow for daily thoughts and recordings. After so long I feel a part of something and I’m already feeling dangerously into the future - stretching out my arms and groping for the possibility of more than a short summer.

My friends are busy - working and living. I look for work half-hearted, content with my cheap and lazy drifting - anchored in with a beautiful something of slim hands creating and a voice that sometimes shook with her words spoken, hemming me in. I’d come unwoven.

I’ve fallen asleep to loose spun hair, catching the moisture of my breath and keeping all but the most silent whispers of warmth from the nape of her neck.

I’m writing stupidly again: signaling the return to my age from the saddened and weak splatter of ash glow that I had reduced to.

I am alive enough to enjoy small moments.

we’ve been away
an anemic drain like
low hemoglobin

contesting this absence
as old Poles, playing chess in the park -
demanding a new chance to prove something

begging to grab hold of you
until you grow into your beauty
and out of my ugly grasp.
why do i grip ugly?

waking up and you’ve
become 1000 songbirds
who realized their colors
had always been enough.