I expect the stars, the dirt on the inside of a cement truck tumbler, should pause at night for me; I paused. Nope: "Man, we're pretty late today," I say aloud. Just me. "We," it's grammatical, not schizophren…

Light is a witch; she reads a book. A book with ten thousand pages, from the stars to the satellite dishes behind our eyes: the story is the same, but has come so far, and All becomes different. Light that is a witch…

The stars are giving us names as long as we are alive; we don’t last long, so all of these seconds make us up. I used to bless those stars and title them too, (everything wants an identity, you so who), but lately my m…

I origi​nally​ wrote​ this back in Febru​ary on my bedro​om floor​ in the Amble​tt apart​ment.​ The groun​d was all ice, and earli​er that day, we had all just walke​d (​slid)​ down the steep​ canyo​n trail​ to Pilla​r F…

Dearest artist in the August rain, I'm hoping you don’t say how we should be home, holed up, hidden, in my room (the muses' music at full volume). I've decided if you do, and if I can, I’ll say I have a better plan, and …