wail mary
from the sacrilege series
writing
I write poetry, creative non-fiction, memoir, and experimental surrealism, from the perspective of a male survivor of childhood sexual abuse.
i am afraid
to be alone with myself
paranoia will destory ya [sic]
paranoia is terrifying, petrifying, but also seductive. it's an attempt to make sense of a world in which almost everything is illusory
Some of My Art (and a poem)
I make photos and other visual art. Mostly digital. Some analog. Some both.
The Clearing
He steps off the path and into the trees, carefully stepping around briars and broken branches. He continues until he finds a small clearing. He looks back to be sure it’s far enough from the trail to be safe – to be unseen.
The Lost Boy
He was never really lost.
Pumiquat
he never spoke to me again. without explanation, i knew how to say the word. pumiquat. it's not what you think. nor what you expect. it's a secret. i've only told you the part that you're allowed to know
Kitchen Memories
i'm not always sure if a story in the archive is a memory or a dream
Buried Alive
Could those human bones we dug up that time have been cursed? Could I have been cursed? Could we have been cursed? We put them back, but maybe that didn’t help. I did everything I could to avoid digging up the bones of my assault.
Ariadne, Amazed
i was touched by you
i was torched by you
you put your boot on my face
What We Love Is What We Hope Is Who We Are
The thing I remember most about being young is the longing I felt, though I knew not for what.
My Vertical Interrogation
I believe I am the figment of a little boy’s imagination. He’s trying to imagine himself in the future. In a different future than the one he expects. I am ten years old imaging I am sixty-three.