Why do I write?

It’s different every day. Today, for instance, I feel like an entire hive at work within me. Bees have partitioned my bones into their waxy cubicles. Their buzzing is the backdrop rhythm of a city in motion and my thoughts are a sweet elixir on my throat. Writing lets me do this; pour honey from …

Rejected

Well, they pulled the trigger and I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s hard to think what I have to say is important when every letter has “sorry to inform you” in the second line. What am I supposed to do with that? Pull up the planks of those sentences and nail together a raft as …

Friday

This hour seems truly godless. This dark hour alone, when everyone is asleep or crying through their prayers, and sweating blood isn't a problematic symptom. Everyone's sweating blood now. Get a wipe, get a mask. You're not special in your suffering. This hour seems truly godless. This loud hour when the masses are the murderers. …

Saturday

What is it about these days that used to be so sacred and intimate? How I’d measure my time between settlements, watching diligently for the anomaly of civilization among the weeds until I finally arrived at their gates? How every moment between was just a matter of waiting, not being, not real like my Saturdays? …

Reflections on Self

I press into the mirror, but there’s a gap between my fingertip and its reflection. I guess it’s the glass covering the polished silver-skin, like a window between me and the otherside. Invisible, impenetrable. Ignorable and imminent. I heard if you saw yourself on the street, you wouldn’t recognize the bend of your jaw, the …

Drought

There’s a pit I used to fill with notes, songs and pictures of us together. Abundantly, they’d fall from my fingertips. Every time my mouth opened, blessings poured out in your name and the pit overflowed into an oasis of our own creation. There’d be days I’d toil for words; days my arms would go …