11.18.2015 |

Sometimes, don’t you feel, always, all at once, that the Royal Tenenbaums is a metaphor for the forces internally pulling you this way and that? In a day, I am Chas, Etheline, Richie, Margot; I am Dusty and Pagoda, Henry Sherman and Royal.
Every second, every second I am Dudley.

4.28.2015 | And everywhere in between

8.17.2014 | Celestial Junk

Celestial Junk

6.22.2014 | A Trip

Shannon’s in love. Shannon, my friend, cannot think of anything else. She’s got that giddy, blind, blindsiding love. At 61, she’s found what’s been missing: an intimacy to satisfy a need, a need and a satisfaction she didn’t know she desired, didn’t think was available to her. She acts like she’s 15: sure. Sure they’ll spend their lives together, somehow, someway. Shannon cannot think of anyone else. Shannon’s in love.

He’s always been so handsome. But it’s really the way they communicate, now, nothing held back, wholly open. On the phone he falls asleep and she listens for a beat, to his breathing, to the static between sighs, before she turns off her phone, not wanting to disturb him. She gets nervous and to calm herself she wears the baseball cap he gave her when she visited. He sends her photos of himself on rooftops, on tarmacs, in firetrucks. She takes her picture outside the Psychic of Love. There are states and miles, there are years between them, lifetimes and marriages, and Shannon says it’s as if they were never apart; they picked up exactly, exactly where they left off, despite the 45 years. Shannon’s in love, Shannon overflows. What a trip, she says.

She says to him, “We need to find Jeremy a girl.” And I wonder, must I wait 45 years? Then, will we pick up where we left off? We left off in letters and stairways, on the banks of frozen lakes. Have I been that sure? What is it to be giddy and to be blind?

Shannon’s in love and for that I am in love with Shannon. I am in love with Shannon’s love.

6.7.2014 | Wingmen

I’m glad that dating does not involve cold-calling upon whole neighborhoods on weekend mornings, in suits, knocking on doors whose owners have not yet dressed, to present literature about how a life with me will lead to the fulfillment of all God’s amazing promises (Jeremiah 1:6), and also, God doesn’t like it when we smoke cigarettes, by the way. Last weekend I made eyes at a woman through two sets of live music before attempting to start a conversation with her; and for all the gnashing of teeth in that small act of creating connection out of no thing, it was still easier—I must assume—than this pair of gentlemen on my front porch at 10AM, a Saturday, trying to find some phrase that would catch my sock-less sleepy sinful soul. The one pitching every line he’s got, the other watching them go foul, without lines of his own to throw.

Beside the cracking wine barrel,
a flat of moldy apricots


From my spot in the loft I see a man and woman drinking lattes. I see your face in hers. I think of you. I fall in love with you, with her, with him, with us, with the students researching final papers, the servers gossiping about coworkers, the stairway to the loft and the double-door entrance and the sidewalk and the courthouse across the street.

Can I ask you: may I write you letters? Poems? May I call you in the evening? And in the morning, in the morning…

5.14.2014 | Full Moon

When you’re walking home from friends, your arms full of toaster oven, your moonful of sky, your mind full of words, your heart—o the heart—full of moon, your air full of toast, your street full of people, the homeless staking their spot.

4.21.2014 | John le Carre Novel or the State of My Love-life?

The Spy Who Came in From the Cold
The Naive and Sentimental Lover
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
The Little Drummer Girl
Our Game
Single & Single
The Constant Gardener
Absolute Friends
A Most Wanted Man

4.10.2014 |

If you’re wondering what smells like sweat and rotting fish, stop. It’s me.
It’s me.
And if you’re wondering who murdered the family of mice, their pink, their shuddering, ask me what color they bleed, how much they weigh.
And if you’re wondering who’s the asshole: I’m sorry.
I couldn’t tell you.

3.18.2014 | The Greater Lexicon

Sometimes I don’t want to say words. I want to say [orange]. I want to tell you, [bassline].

3.13.2014 | Recall

I’m recalling all my poems. Send them back. They’re broken.

3.8.2014 | all along the surface of this earth

What does it take to become one of those people who whistles, a high-pitched hawk-like whistle, while they’re out and about downtown, and for no apparent reason? What does it take to become a door-to-door salesman, selling the good if not slightly cultish word, pulling your children along to peek inside the doors of the already churched? People Are Weird. What does it take to be the old man behind me chanting, “cookie, ookie, ookie?”

3.8.2014 | Mystery Project No. 1

I realized I’ve been holding this new big-ass writing project in the same staging area of my mind where I keep most of my as-yet-unrealized physical art projects. I got it up on a work table, and I’m pacing around it, looking at its angles and curves and trying to see each and every detail before I carry it into the physical world.

Back in the scene shop, when I’d encounter a sticky problem, I’d take the long walk to the drinking fountain, to buy some time in which to mentally recreate the problem, disassemble and find the solution. This is why most of my ideas stall: I have not yet been able to imagine all the nooks and crannies, the solutions to the design. (Alternately: I see too many solutions and can’t decide which is the best.)

This is not usually how I approach my writing, though. Most of my writing is exploratory: I might have my metal detector out and beeping, but I don’t yet know what I’ll find, or what I’ll have to dig through to find it. And it’s weird to me, that I’ve placed this writing in that other brainspace, that more mechanical space.

In general, this large-format, well-engineered writing is so foreign to me. I’ve been working on it in the last few days, and the writing is slow, so slow, like I’m navigating a rocky mountain creek with my bare feet. I know: it’s time. And: I need to get to the other side. Now: how do I stay up-right? How am I not swept-up?

2.14.2014 | Maybe Tonight

valentine 001 crop

Today is today. Yet,
you are you, and I, I, I

2.8.2014 | Short Little Span of Attention

California, it’s just some rain. Won’t you come out to play?

I’ve been wanting to write all day and all night and I sit down and it’s gone, gone, gone.

We’ll find it again.

I want to fill my life with people who are constantly game, who are up and who are down, people who have no need of excuses, for their answer is yes, always, definitely.

Won’t you come out and play in the rain?

In my 29th year, I will be more comfortable in my body. I wore a gray sweatjacket and khakis every day in high school because it was the only outfit in which I felt O.K. Maybe I’ve grown out of that; maybe some days I still feel painfully aware of myself.

In my 29th year, I will be more comfortable in my memories. They will inform but they won’t haunt. They will flow but not over.

In my 29th year, I will be more comfortable in my mind. This brain does not seem to wave at the same lengths as the majority. It’s built of neurons that move in loops and speak in riddles. I feel, sometimes, like I’m working through an interpreter. I want to speak and be understood. And you know this is light, this is nothing compared to what some others are carrying. So it’s alright, it’s alright, but it compounds my loneliness into fear.

Won’t you come out to play? We’ll stand at the 50. We’ll let the clouds speak true, we’ll let the rain vibrate honestly, we’ll find ourselves and there we’ll be and there we’ll be.

2.3.2014 | Burrow

You cannot burrow into music.

As much as you may try to fit yourself, there, in between the bass line and the rhythm section, chords like an heirloom quilt, the trance will never come.