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Cave paintings

January 13, 2018

Lately I have felt close to death.

This permanent absence.

How can you hold this certainty of removal along side the blooming of newness?

There is always spring, there is always winter.

Is it possible to remember the whole world all at once?

This dumb ditch, a sad mouse in a tiny maze, lost, I mark the walls as I look for a way out.


Acceptance and adaptation

January 6, 2018

I will learn how to take care of others. I will learn how to take care of myself.

I will try and fail and again and again. I will buy cleaning supplies from the first place I find and when they fail and fall apart I will search again for a better place, a sustainable, reliable place.

I will move boxes and furniture and start washing and in this process I will discover what I don’t know. How to cut a pear, how to avoid squeezing the juice out of a burger, how to mix the soap to mop the floor.

I have been raised with privilege and I did not cut myself away, I leaned in. Instead of acknowledging that we are all born ignorant, I asked questions, the most egregious: “Is this my responsibility?” Grow up.

Watching others, mostly women, hunch over, pick up the trash and carry it to the roadside. “Hey thanks for doing that,” the petulant respond.

I’m stepping toward a better way of being. I’m wobbling away from hopelessness and fear. I’m removing this dumb gold star that I won for being a helpless fool who convinced the mothers of the world that I was worth the extra labor. Caregiver, caretaker, there is only this left to do.


December 30, 2017

Don’t forget the sun

or the afternoon breeze

or the view of your body from Saturn

the world is a fractal of labels and connections, a thing made of itself

unclench and remember the soft embrace of your skin

the steady brightness of a friend in some other room

you are not alone, the sun has not left you, it’s okay to spend this time doing anything

find comfort in the foggy night, the mist obscures nothing knowable

Lost keys

December 23, 2017

I needed to see hope shining in the eyes of anyone golden.

I climbed down a hole, so I could look up to you.


And as you get closer, I have to dig deeper.

You hold back as you get the sense that you might fall in,

You stand near the edge begging me to climb out. “Join me!”

And I’m looking up to you.

I’m trying.

I’m trying to grow up.

side gig

February 18, 2015

There is no money in anything just stay at home and think about the galaxy or exotic animals or dreams you had as a kid or a savings account or that middle class future your parents set you up for anything really that makes you smile but you’ll never actually tangibly get ahold of. Don’t mind the gaze of the cash cult followers who see that you haven’t been praying. Your unholiness is the only moral standing left.

The new apartments on gates are going to have an underground parking garage, he says, his arm perpetually stuck to his chest in a sling. He tried living in Mississippi for a few months after losing his apartment but came back. He said it was hard to get around on public transit. He’s always had a side gig. Selling jewlrey and scarves at a table on ralph. You have to have a side gig if you want to survive, he says. The south wasn’t for him but things are looking up because the apartments on gates are going to be really nice. The elevator opens right to your apartment.

Everything Is Happening This Way Because That Is How It Has Always Happened.

February 28, 2014

The smell of nail polish remover.

The smell of defeat, failure, giving in, remembering that if you don’t make yourself presentable you might as well starve to death. You’re doing this to yourself, you know.

The smell of the waiting room outside the small dance studios, concrete floors and tiled hallways. The push and pull of the white plastic seats and the difficulty of keeping your math books in your lap as you try to finish the homework in between jazz and hip hop, wondering if you’ll ever make senior competition, wondering if you’ll ever dance after high school.

That moment when in college, before knowing the privilege of a family who could afford dance classes, before realizing your parents never meant for your extra curricular to amount to anything, before the odd dispassionate responses from your dance professors, before you met the people you looked up to from the audience, when you decided you found that thing that made you feel like living.

You want to dance? Well fuck you. Art is a competition and you know damn well that you don’t have the strength. You wanted to look like him. You wanted to make sure you followed the path exactly as it was intended. You studied the material, you took the test, you got passing marks and now you want a reward. Well you don’t get one. That’s not how it works. You weren’t the object they were looking for. A discarded toy. A disposable fragile little thing. This was written before you ever decided to audition in college.

But there’s good news.

You don’t want to be that object in constant need of validation that it exists. A paint brush held by an indifferent authoritarian painter.

I can’t tell you what you should do. If you keep looking for directions you’ll find plenty of crowded well-worn paths.

Just keep going.

This is the fucking dance.

You are the fucking dancer.