point

what i want to say

i want to just

present my heart

a record that is personal

and in the present tense

a where have i been

a what have i been thinking

for the past 5 years

it may all be enough

or more than i've thought it was

i always want to hear the most personal

not as in a trauma mapping

but as in the hyper specific

impressions and delusions 

we all have

i want to say that my reality is office mundane

and the flipcoin to a genocide

that i want to be stronger than all of it

but i am tightroping 

the idea that some are 

bitten by angels

and others are kissed

by death

and we want to fight

for each other 

but the divide is on purpose

the distance just by chance

i want to be

an enemy of the smooth 

the everyone a pop star

lying by omission

for the sake of the package

claiming style 

with no margin of error 

omitting marginalia

omitting uncertainty

claiming a selfhood

unique, solid

as brandishable as a weapon

brandishing brand

so tired of looking at that

untitled (physical graffiti)

I wish it could be so both

like 2 tights and 2 looses

could get between around I mean

I live here, crawling over the lucite sphere 

of the mix all clammy by get I mean into 

taste the latent painting,

the subterranean set of facts or

do I draw? dancers pulling silk scarves from 

the center of an old tire this tilted memory 

palace postcard holographic and 

psychic you passing cloud black 

and yellow buff like a chance 

Rothko, jealous 

of such crystalized obsession

me doing everything erasing

itself while power just is 

everything around the corner

it’s the morning everything

comes to me, the morning

I see everything getting warmer

everything on fire I always try to

do everything [it] gets watery

while spirit just is where it is 

and was, a Whole Lotta Love

conjures time in full, drops of 

fog drown my song

the mist rushes up from the canyon

the valley is really a V

forgot about god and wet water 

'til it came backwards to me

the dream was all night

missing some Bolinas type 

cliff, archer watching me

in the rain she said mural as

I walked on the broken roof 

tuned to the entire radio

Morgan and Alice

something about making meaning anyway

despite the tech between a feeling and its expression

be it: Traditional Art, as my students delineate

or premiere pro, where I spend an hour

adding echo to the word bloom 

Morgan Wallen’s melodies…enchant? 

me, thesaurus.com tiled with 

girls in bathing suits

morning ends and details 

get remote but

tonight I’m good

with however much sunset 

reaches my frame

he sings bloom so it falls 

off [the chorus] from an amazingly

low height

a different he said he didn’t know what to say anymore

but I’m glad he said that and the sun

wraps my left eye

the hot and the cold are separate but do mix

Alice says, cancel each other out 

we said hot fudge sundae cranked 

AC with the windows down in 

summer

when the waymos turn the corner

a void, where anyone might put a song

dream the dad of him, he, who was 2 people

was doing exercises, copying me, or me him?

I’m a little Alice pilled, disobedient

slept so classic SF cold air to 

touch and dreams tinged 

with said hot fudge

of course language 

has its own barbs plus

I’m a slow, two fingered typist

meanwhile the jackhammer outside

Ouijas my emoji selection 

If this is a diary

is it worthless

like life?

already here (LA)

summer is so parking break

static, ascendant

tires bald and turned toward the red curb

watching the clock I guess

time wears hurt, fitted

to the minute hand 

it rides and still,

I want the evening to be huge

for dusk to hold

once, I never missed it

when the moon was bright and cut by phone wires

the days were full circles with meeting ends

today my exhaust pipe drags

scraping the red curbs back natural

why not diagnose the whole city?

feelings fall out my new boots

and a paper skirt shows me 

a circle of pictures that spill 

into dreams— liquid, 

federal, half legible, 

night, 

cross the border both ways

without

words, the heavy stones I roll

organic and incorrect I can’t

find sexy let alone true

so where is language in its inundation

a cup full of caution tape

an insufficient sadness

memories double exposed

with total concrete

and softening tar

how free do you think?

late June cut late July

sick, and the day 

unhooks me

the way the world looks

all its things hot

burning holes to their fine print

7,8,9

texting about clay pigeons

pigeons that weren't shot

feeling sick/seen

trying to access something

something older and heavier

how to explain

when the smallest amount of air on body in clothes 

and sunlight and a flavor on the breeze remind you 

of a feeling you felt once months ago and you don't 

have time to access fully now? 

a way of body being in clothes

new blemishes blooming on face

dreams of the stress variety

patience

how to write a song about faith, or from my known faith in simplicity and a rule of goodness

inherent, implicit, God-ness

folded like a question

another pair of black leather shoes that are close but not quite it

another day that is close but not quite warm

meyer lemon vapor ice. Type 1 and Type 2 fun. 

You can actually relinquish some amount of expectation because the world doesn't owe you inspiration. You are the world. 

The construction workers have built themselves a sun shelter picnic table and a grill is always there, is it chained to the fence like a dog?

the buildings are taking shape around me and less offensive than anticipated to look at. I don't want to write from a place of discontent or expectation of what is owed me because nothing is owed me, and I'm not discontent

merely alienated, from time to time

hold the image in mind, in pocket

of sunsoaked romance

I will shower, or maybe fill my tank with gas

I want to dress well, like myself, and I want to be fun, like myself

my favorite days all year have been

found something basically edible in my filing cabinet

last night a lot of teeth falling out in my dreams

admitting the things she writes in her notebook have nothing to do with realism and everything to do with compulsion and how it felt to be her as approximated by the images captured

the common denominator is always me, myself

or words to that effect

waking up earlier just means more time to get more ready for work

am I still just into the bejeweled mysterious? The Bejeweled Mysterious 

still uncomfortable with benderism

me and the construction workers in the parking lot

terrible dream of a whole middle school locked up with kids inside who couldn't get out couldn't get in but I could see mold growing on every surface it growing over in the humidity 

then I was woken and fucked

to drink or not? should eat lots of water

I want to sing my soul, the good and deep parts

write for real, talk to my soul and the world

if you wanna be my lover you gotta get with my _______

hunched over like a monday (monkey?)

trees are proud of their fruit

seashells, silver items, leather goods, what?

ask it as a question instead of saying it as a thin ice

diprima says men tossed up on my beaches

making ends meet, literally -----> <-----

convince yourself you like the sensation of the sand flies on your skin

is soul just a notion, a drug?

the human world is unified in a different way... accidentally, by technology & oppression

always good to put sand in the gears

if it even slows one cruelty, stops one minor crisis

plastic bag blown flush to the chain link and stuck there

protection not perfection

I twirl a spiral seed pod between my fingers 

it makes me dizzy

the jasmine wind

pick some and import it

to the climate controlled cubicle

working overtime

as in above it

fear of being degenerate

the things I want to do are both simple and deep and to reach their depth i must trick time and trick myself

that's it, that's all

the same construction workers parked and pulling away every time I sit here and do they recognize me

car math

setting an intention to feel good and not be annoying

thought that was a fortune on the ground it was the tear-off edge of a paystub, someone's fortune

it's 2025 I am 32 years old

how long is a minute really? long enough for everything

a warm sly voice

I've heard the mind is suggestible

so I suggest some things

every minute I am moving towards

I am taking care

loving plastic for its clarity

color or lack thereof

sealing and displaying

its sunfade

copy pasted into the cubicle 

conveying her clothing to work

music feels time, rather than keeps it

be grateful for slowed time, wherever it happens

wants to go back

the years go fast in seasons, in 4 parts

like a dollar (to a child) in quarters

a quart of milk in cups

a kid once tore his dollar in half to give me 50 cents

but our year evades perforation, sits at an angle

we make this shape with our bodies

of ascendent angels   future, italic 

it’s still a roller rink, a ring of Saturn

a slanted sculpture, the angel 

wants to go back 

and fix

my thinking pinballs and 

feelings

are shovel shaped

new myths carved in solid granite 

the contours of my fantasies 

crumble in 15 minute increments

the hours drop to flash 

flood, summer 

itself sober

at the waterfront of my dreams

my eyes adjust to the dark

and I see it's all hospital

supine, ascendent 

angels

rollerskating off

the drawing of earth