Articles

When I was a kid, I dreamt of being a goddess
atop a white piano, wearing angel wings straight out
of the Victoria’s Secret catalog of my childhood
imagination,

All there is to do is to say it
confused, say it ugly to not-there-ness,
because that’s what I need sometimes:

There are rhythms and there are rhythms. Some are cock’s crow tomorrows like tomorrow sure to come.

Imagine an azimuth in an imagined way. Imagine a line and let it be bent, a silverstring kink in a showman’s rope strung from two petals of a compass rose.

To be driven by—aside, even before physical
hunger; to be driven—above all, perhaps—by a force
more basic and fierce: the need, as tidal

Kataleya, the word of the day the day
you were born was inveigle, in case you ever
want to know. You can pronounce it vay-guhl

I remember the land less brutal, less
crowned in shotgun shells,

We were traveling in Melbourne Australia back in January of 2018. The location was at the entrance to the Melbourne Museum of Art. The image was made looking through a window that had water running down on the outside.

I’ve kept writing because I don’t know a better way to regularly orient myself to the world. It realigns the cells and makes the world manageable.

What’s kept me writing is the inability to shake it off, and my continual interest in deconstructing and reconstructing the world on the page. People, motivations for action, control, and the natural world are themes and areas which I habitually return to and pull from, although not always directly.