The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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To Sleep The pink sun has fledto its bedchamber, leaving my hands darkened—wrapping‘round the sleeping beast his prayers, shadows and starshinehis hooves, bent toward the bloody moon begging for forgivenessas my fingers
from ambient poems hi this is my algorithmic expression my me slowly becoming an NPC an encrypted moth a placeless i in an ambient logic that wants forgetting yet persits like a
against the shed, my bike leans, rusting. i pick off my legs a handful of sand spurs. i save them in a jar. i save everything that cuts me, from paper to
When the Editor Asks if the Suicidal Ideation is a Persona in his rejection email I appreciate it honestlyI do but I wish he was right that that endless tunnel was just
Child of my body, you are from me. I gave birth to you. Yet you are from another time,another place. My mother died when I was a toddler. My father remarried and
it’s not the child
One empties and fills; the other trickles. Both keep me afloat.
But I am the kind of man who’s abandoned his father. How easy, my tongue. Not me. Never. No. I tell myselfI am not the kind of man who’d abandon his child.
at Lake Lugano, Switzerland You sit between eachwave rocking this stone worldlike a cradle. The peaks & troughs of me,my life, delight to beholdall that you offer. When you gently close a
War exists in beautiful places.In the arms of a galaxy, symbiotic stars swallow each otherand in the shallows of a reef, a four-armed sea star spreadsover a shell like a chromosome. Scarred,