Sunday, September 19, 2021


moving in and out of focus with the patterns of it all, sky in the faintest purple and grey, moon in there, too, a calling or receiving, wherever light goes when it goes to you, across from a deep shingled roof, deep blue I mean: the color of home, my father, a place just beyond what is, a sinking after coming to see fear just being fear, small steps being always not enough, big steps far off and the way forward, the clarity of friendship sitting there playing accordion on the couch, huge breathes in slowness, that which is never quiet, the silliness of the sound, its weird sadness as pages are filled, slips of paper are woven into little quilts then tucked away, ink just being ink, weekly meetings dissolving to monthly, to huge impassable distances crossed in a single afternoon, a twenty minute drive, then alone at home on a saturday night, getting a call for sunday plans, canceling things then getting canceled on, some drifting happening, something coming into view  


an invitation on faded turquoise: open something which is closed: the endless answers, the how many times, the shades of shadow along the wall, on the grass, shifting in the breeze, hours passing, holding, resting on it, resting, but staying closed: asking of seeing an answer: not wanting to, but having it, the heaviness that comes from the too close of losing, missed connections and a small blue notebook of otherwises: what would it mean, to renounce such a place? I can't do it, can't swim in the shallows of things, paddle from one room to the next, open again to the entanglement of it all, lifting a handful of hairs off one of the couch pillows this morning, impossible to know whose but there aren't many options, finishing a book, closing it after it's final page about death, the moments before and wanting to know: and who could, the circumstances that make nothing else possible, that write history in the tiniest font, scrambled and served with salt, pepper, and piment d'ville on the plates my grandma gave me that as a kid I'd thought were out of style, not my kind of funk, but now, in the pale of my own space remind me of her, holding them after a phone call about poetry, accepting the limits, the need to engage with it all, the difficulty and the more difficult thing: not writing, not unzipping the afternoon at the hidden seam, not making something of it: the waiting, the wait 

Friday, September 10, 2021


the whole sky opening up, or none of it: stupid fears like getting t-boned at a four way stop or falling out of the sky: the things that won't happen until it's too late: living next to a construction site for two years and only wanting to leave, having the guts to, once it's finally quieted down: just past sunset, the second week in a row the trash wasn't picked up, a whole block of offerings unanswered: the call of the gull who sits on the same lamp post all day, all year, shitting the top to a pure white, as pure as those things go: failing at it from the start, the project of belonging being nothing more than a shuffling, a shoulder turned in and brushed against a cheek, showing up to the same place time and time again: an apartment on the second floor, the concrete stairway I imagined another self at the bottom of, tried to walk towards: arriving is a quiet, slowed down to a pause

Wednesday, September 8, 2021


a year happens, tide and wind and tide, screen protectors replaced and shattered again. there is no other life, none other than air filled with light smoke and windows cracked open to cool things down, months of trying or preparing to take account of things, to hold what's mine and say, teary eyed, this is who I am: afraid and reaching so as to not fall, going back to the same songs like the seasons, because that's what it is: september again. is it true that all things have an ending? expiration printed in faded ink on a plastic sheet that was thrown away at the start, a moment when there's nothing to say, a call at the wrong time after work, the same traffic on the way home: none other: a curve around a curve, two bodies so close as to forget they're sleeping. we spoke beside the park with all the tiny places, many inlets, corners carved out of dried grass, cinder blocks, sandwich lunches, marmalade, some chairs, and after it all, I drove myself to the sea. I saw the few stars in the city sky. I thought of the fog and being home, how thick it was, how it covered everything.

Monday, August 30, 2021


all the books I never finished: the difficulty of things, wadding a little deeper and not looking back, not knowing how, anymore, to let in what’s familiar until it’s too late: two years of negotiating, giving, receiving ice cream fed pork chops, wagyu and now a whole head of bluefin, eyes drooping in against the heat, meat cut off and put into a soup for dinner: the times when things aligned: a shared ingestion of pleasure: of food and drink and weed and then disappearance, the distance found somehow in the space between the living room and the kitchen, even though they’re one shared room, separated by an island, and what of that: the problems I make for myself to solve, a moment’s relief on my unmade bed and the clarity of someone else telling it like it is: he talks at you and never asks any questions: having nothing to say, having to make anew, having been reminded: I’ve moved in your direction so many times, so many afternoons of cheese making something silly okay, I’m thinking now of where my bookshelf might go, and how it’d look there: somewhere else

Thursday, August 26, 2021


again, something misses: a pain, shifting back inside: the hole in my head I go into when something needs to be preserved: the body or an outlook, a passage perhaps, between me and the world, the line of tiny spiders each perched on its own small space: the crease, elbows along a metal geometry: the art of noticing, tending to what's there, asking for engagement: my whole being, every association that reverberates off unspoken words and shuffles past a full page of scrawl and is parsed out on a phone, or an email for that matter, about the need to keep making, experimenting, finding new ways to be in the world while still making a living: making a tapestry out of loosened strings, conversations and confessions over text message, apologies and late responses, a new circle in purple felt tip after discarding the plan: a walk at the river at sunset, a near full moon, a dinner of kale pesto, blitzed when there was too much olive oil, but as you said, there can never be

Tuesday, August 17, 2021


moving in and out of focus with the patterns of it all, sky in the faintest purple and grey, moon in there, too, a calling or receiving, whe...