all the broken things

  • coolant in the oil

  • light on the dash

  • a brand new, top’o’the line, dying battery

  • flat mower wheel

  • no carport

  • gravel sinks

  • no talking about planning

  • no plans

  • money I cannot bring myself to spend—the risk! the future! the maybes!

  • for silly temporary things.

  • Nevermind the numbers on those pages.

  • Bonds, bounds, binding.

  • What goes up must keep going up

  • (That’s capitalism!)

  • Lemmings building bridges, mining pathways, drifting on umbrellas or plummeting to their deaths;

  • we thought it was funny to watch them die.

  • Pixels of ephemory.

  • Turn it off.

  • Cry over nothing.

  • FedEx stares at the house but can’t locate the pin on the screen, a whole system where we don’t exist. Despite the hundreds emblazened around the yard. Three hundred—no, four.

  • Mailbox, driveway entry, dark characters shouting against pale yellow siding.

  • But the screen says no, and so, off they go.

  • Split the world in two.

  • What you want to be fed to you

  • and the truth

  • Game over, baby. Insert coin to continue.

  • 3-2-1

  • Press Start

through july 2025

  • mourning dove

  • country cousins

  • teardrops on the powerline,

  • picking the mulch clean.

  • Forgot the vulture visiting the fence post wondering if the trash can was a dead thing.

  • The ants feast.

  • Still, Abundance.

  • Soon, Rot and sister Ruin.

  • Guadalupe

  • apparition, shrine and pilgrimage.

  • وادي اللب, wādī al-lubb

  • child of an ancient tongue.

  • Take the old world and drop it in a new one

  • not arbitrary, but tributary:

  • “Among the dead”

oct 2024

  • bathroom gecko

  • ​​building reminders

  • ​​how a blister on the toe can threaten the days ahead

  • ​​all the worries you try not to consider

  • ​​the lotion with its pleasantly light coconut scent

  • ​​how this city remains awake as I sleep

  • ​​amazing how quickly one acclimates

  • ​​this bed

  • ​​that water

  • ​​the sun sweating through me

  • ​​i can wrap my toe in tissue

  • ​​i can get back to virginia to find it more sweet

  • sun spots

  • ​​trying not to sneeze in the Miami airport

  • ​​traveling alone, for now

  • ​​the streets of Miami are choked with storm water

  • ​​swim in the ocean

  • ​​swim in the streets

  • ​​i think all these homes are airbnb

  • ​​mercedes parked outside the gate

  • ​​silent taxi, reprieve 

  • ​​the lady on the plane thanked me for not being obese

  • ​​cringe

  • ​​they’re going to the bahamas to put on makeup and squeeze into old jeans

  • ​​we’re all judging something

  • ​​horizontal streetlights how i missed thee

.bullet points

Bullet points are succinct, blunt, fully loaded. A journal of simplicity. This this this.

  • I feel a regular dread at the idea of sharing to the void.

  • I aspire to this: to perform live the ideas posted here.

  • This is a publishing device, a means to date my work, a vulnerable space to leave a creation.

  • When they can highlight and take it away. Copied. Pasted.

  • If you should take it, I hope it’s somewhere safe. Somewhere needed, helpful, kindly meant

  • somewhere that furthers words