Saturday, June 18, 2022


When writing was a way back in, the way was a holding, breath, the rhythm of a hot morning before anyone else in the house wakes up. There were drinking games that no one seemed to fully know the rules to and a series of unanswerable questions. Hands taking hands: there, beside the river with a full moon rising over us—I mean so many of us, so many moons and how many futures. A dedication is simple: a direction (an unknowing).

Cristina Rivera Garza says that we are usually confronted with either an excess of language or its total loss. Words obscure us from each other. When I showed my poem about our meeting on the bridge to some friends, someone suggested navigating along its underbelly. And where would that place us? And where would we go?

Friday, May 27, 2022


Why are we in different places? I mean, why are we in different places right now while I'm under all this sweetgum? I mean, sweetgum seeds, I rolled one in my hand just now, like I did when I was hypnotized and instructed to reach into my pocket and pull out something that would hold within a whole of my life. One piece, its own whole. I pulled, that day, a sweetgum seed. I rolled its spiked sides in my hand and today did the same. My whole childhood held in that seed which could have been any, but was this one, here. I mean, here in this park in Santa Monica where I was seemingly the only person without a dog or a child. I put down the seed and reached my hands into my pockets. I asked for a new object which could give shape to this life and reached in. My pockets were filled with sand. I mean, my pockets were filled with sand, and you weren’t here.

Thursday, May 19, 2022


How far would we have to go
to open the door to the other thing, the that
or what we said that was—or keep walking
toward the movement of grasses against the cliff
of someone else—a sentence,
was it a box
              or a mouth opening?

Friday, April 15, 2022


A little loosening. Thinking “together” and writing “tonight”—how might such a slip become a tear in what is, an opening toward an otherwise? Hold there, in the distance between joining and this darkness, hot water with lemon and honey, night sky with just a few stars. Hold there, in the distance between wanting to be and wanting to be seen, projections out towards small clusters of language, barnacles against the edge of the shore. Not having makes so many fissures in what’s otherwise whole. Being seen by you the way identity isn’t a question, or rather, is understood to always be one, unfinished and invisible somewhere behind pieces of recrystallized stone, vast caverns of an internal world dug out of pixelated blocks and overflowing noise. What if behind every choice is a piece of thin blue ribbon, a whole city made and remade out of string, drawn across every relation until all that exists are the measures of distance?

Tuesday, April 12, 2022


Writing is always a process of unraveling. Before tapping away at plastic keys there’s an invitation, a pull towards a center, some ephemeral feeling or a gift: a few shells in a pink mesh bag, golden stars reflecting the sun. How to walk to the edge and stay there, even in the terror of it, even in the unknowing? Before the sea, tide and tide and tide. Among the trees, a return to the self, the thought of home and my failed attempts to get my ears pierced. The inadequacy of it, the many proposed solutions that keep being offered to the problem of being, or being without you, or being so far. Beautiful distractions and hundreds of new currencies, fantasies of flight and accumulation, ownership and victory as a means of false safety—or simply a break from the weight of it all. The simple want to walk on the beach with you without a mask on, or not having to fly an hour, or not having to catch each other in my early mornings and your nights. Few things are as sustaining these days as a call, and even though I know I’m about to move it’s hard to believe it. To face my own decision. To speak without an aim, to not ask for resolution, to keep the space of waiting open. Hélène Cixous, in the final lines of Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing: “I realized that perhaps there must be ‘conclusions’ to my journeys, because these sheets I’m walking across with my hands are ‘lectures.’ But there is no ‘conclusion’ to be found in writing. . .”

Monday, April 11, 2022


At the edge of importance is what, is gut, is the mantra again and again: go with your gut! Well, my gut has a thousand vessels, enters from too many points and tries to take me everywhere else. Gut says: poetry. Gut says: you need to be with the people you love. Gut says: yes. Gut says: no. Gut says: if someone understands the idea of the openness, the not-knowing-what-to-say, the way what is sought after is always unfinished, a call against a call, gut says: follow that. Gut says: language is the space in which it happens, until it isn’t language and becomes bodies, the two of us sitting on cold sand, wearing masks. Gut says: go home, you need to be with the trees. Okay, so I didn’t do that, I followed a different gut, the one that says, you don’t need to do something so hard, you don’t need to challenge yourself more than the challenge that already awaits. Again and again, the project: how to be with you. And within that struggle gut opens its gut, has its own will, eats everything then asks for another bowl. Gut needs to eat! And still gut speaks, says: you need to change your life, only to fantasize about a backyard with bougainvillea, some friends, and a warm evening a few miles from the sea.

Friday, April 8, 2022


When writing was a way back in, the way was a holding, breath, the rhythm of a hot morning before anyone else in the house wakes up. There w...