sep 9. 2025 loving stillness
sep 18. 2025 loving mobility
jan 16. 2026 not much to say most of the time. may curiosity guide me
may 8. 2026
I watched a boat get clipped by the trirail
hitched to the bumper of a white suv
no one was hurt I'm sure but the train stalled itself and everyone else -
dinners waiting at home, the second to last episode of a season, a bed with open arms and a moderate sadness to calm the body.
your dog depends on you.
may 13. 2026 soap in my coffee
may 14. 2026 sleeping better on a couch than the bed these days
may 17. 2026
when I walk in circles, it feels like home. I want to run forever and never
feel my legs again, I want to dance with a sword and know it's mine.
I want to slide to the end of the arc, to feel like - to know - nothing will hurt -
no one watches the way I fumble with my hands more than I do.
slowly I'm opening the gate, the one centered at the fence of my own construction -
it takes talking thinking talking thinking - and the perimeter will be my background.
may 19. 2026
I like when I can hear the birds on your end of the call, and you can hear the car wash at the end of my street.
I like that our skies look different sometimes, but we know it's the same, and
it measures the space between where I am and where you are.
not in a way that makes me sad anymore - I think maybe my clouds travel north
to deliver the messages I whisper to them. I could tell you myself - I feel like
I already tell you everything, but I think I always have more I could say to you.
"with you I just seem to go right ahead and sort of invent it. I invent it for you."
may 28. 2026
matte bright orange blocks the sky - car insurance! what a deal. you too
can feel protected among thousands. I revel in the illusion of it, a promise made
to your fellow man in the form of corporation. cooperation! competition. collaboration -
I could come up with words all day.
a car ad on a personal sedan - a photo of someone's three year-old daughter selling lumber.
sometimes, I'll start to cry. why do I know your business before your company?
more hours on the road than on my own feet, tongue swollen with worry and an allergy to
the new balm I ran my tongue over nervously.
did someone see that in the rearview?
jun 6. 2026 learned of the snail kite. he can only eat one certain type of snail
jun 10. 2026 what is a normal amount of tired?
jun 17. 2026
I've familiarized myself with the great egret at my workplace.
lately the waterbirds walk beside me. I wonder if they know me -
I'm enamored with the tricolor heron I used to think was a little blue one,
and I look for him during my lunch hour like we agreed on a time to meet.
I'm inclined to give them a meaning - solitary, slow, unthinking but
knowing it all. I wonder if he searches for joy in the same way I have to.
jun 24. 2026 I like to say what I want. I love to try to speak something into existence and nothing else.
jun 30. 2026
is it the body before the brain or the mind before the mold?
they play talk shows I didn't know were airing anymore in the waiting room, and I have to fill out forms
like I haven't been there twenty times before. I want to feel important the same way my illness makes itself known,
burrowed into the pit of my gut, the very same I rely on for instinct.
I am grateful to be alive, even if just halfway.
jul 7. 2026
on the eve of my birthday I don't feel any different. I can feel the strings on my back pull taut - I know
there's a frame I should inhabit, a posture appropriate. a recipe I can call my "go to," a penchant for small talk.
so I've been trying the taste of menthols, and I know what my manager likes to talk about. fitness and who's a billionaire,
which cruise has the best balcony, stocks, and new restaurants out of my budget. I'm fascinated in a faraway way -
it seems nice to embody the expected. a polo shirt and a pair of well fitting jeans. but I concern myself with popstars
younger than me, international reality tv, and a fifth fiberless frozen dinner that only tastes good for its lack of effort.
I have bills and a video game waiting for me when I get home, 30 pages of a book I can't finish, and a curiosity and love
for things I forgot how to name.
jul 13. 2026 I get the same feeling when my dad shows me an invite he made on microsoft word (times new roman, 12 pt, clipart)
as when my grandma (who never learned how to write) gives me a handwritten card
jul 21. 2026 over 70 mosquito bites, poolside
jul 22. 2026
soft voice in a hot car - who took your canines out? I press my thumb against mine, curbing my harsher desires.
did you grow up the same way I did?
I'm not sure why the body gets bored - the material is incessant. everywhere I go I have the right to be mad.
but I'm not. all these songs just sound the same lately, soft voice in a hot car.
aug 7. 2026
I have been missing the tension, the hot pavement that spurs my bare feet,
a searing interruption that causes me to run. the gravel in my shoes,
the ones with the worn down soles that drive me to stores and stores and stores
in search of new ones.
but recently I felt the dirt. the soil, the mud. the very same where hooves tread,
grass sprouts, and seeds bathe. sometimes it's a sidewalk with trash cans blocking the way
and a group of thirty kids or so wearing light blue uniforms to stick together. a field trip.
the pigeons with different plumage eat from the same hands - a sweet old woman and her maybe husband nearby.
sometimes we'll talk, sometimes not. at the very least a polite hello I've come to appreciate.
bumping shoulders doesn't bother me the same way it used to; I like the tension, the kind
I don't have to look for anymore.
aug 17. 2026
I can love cats even if I'm allergic, and I can sit in the heat of a broken down car
and know it's only a measure of time. I can strike up a conversation that falls flat -
it's okay because they're strangers - and still enjoy the company, and
I can enter a tournament I haven't trained for.
I can sing along to a song I don't know at karaoke because the words are on the screen, and
I can stay in an old house and still feel something new.
aug 26. 2026
every day I learn about a new person. usually, it's against my will.
I learn their wrongdoings, their shortcomings, their enemies, and their flaws -
I feel a fear I haven't ever felt before. I don't know what to give importance to anymore.
I'm only known by what I know, the people I've seen and if I've heard about this or that.
I don't pay too much attention to what I eat anymore. I'm not sure if anyone cares?
it's not from that new place that just opened downtown. I don't really go around there.
aug 27. 2026
around a sign, across a field, cutting directly to the corner store without rounding the corner.
sidestepping a dip in the ground with a tendency to flood, a few lychees dropped here and there.
the grass doesn't grow anymore, not where I tread - it parts where I'm a part of it,
remembering my impatience and my ingenuity, keeping a record I don't think twice about.