Friday, April 14, 2017


My fingers these past weeks have smelled like burning hair/metal. Why?
Tonight I'm going to sleep in fear & frustration, anxious over deaf heads packed with cotton, who confuse bravery with obstinance. I am an onion skin pulled by a dull knife through deepening layers that fall apart when sliced. My face slides across the computer screen, I feel its human warmth--it's me--& my open eyes see you're just a twitter feed. I feel unstable, half wondering if your purpose is malicious, a small faction against the whole merely disorients the unharmonic empire, the split hair of a country gone capital-digital, impossibly individual. I wanted to text you about this, but it's too late. I wanted to call the pastor who studies evil. I wanted to connect to someone real like talk to my dad, to get those pics from some Grindr guy & hook up, to just have a mind cradled by a deliberate body to hold & understand my intention, how to carry it out. Tonight I need a communication that, though words flow through, is not based in language persuasion or fear. The root of all evil is fear. The root of all fear is unknown, and those who refuse to know. 

Saturday, April 1, 2017


more dealing with how to be this drunk than real things.
Booze lets you embrace the grey space without denying yr polarity.