writing

i'm not always sure if a story in the archive is a memory or a dream…

i was touched by you i was torched by you you put your boot on my face…

As we wept—my father and I—I wondered if it was for his friend, after all. I wondered if it was for him. I wonder if it was for me.…

The original trauma was birth and everthying that follows is but preparation for the trauma of death. Of letting go of all that we have learned. It is only through remembering that we can die because remembering is to forget.…

The thing I remember most about being young is the longing I felt, though I knew not for what.…

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.…

Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens, by millions and millions more subpoenas, to wash it white as snow?…

he came up on an eagle on a sandbar looking over his shoulder bloody beak dripping with dead cormorant...…

that was how it started, this is how it started, that death, this death, two points, on an imaginary line, only one point, on a circle, a clock...…

In the earliest grades he was a bit of a bully. If his family hadn’t moved he likely would have continued on a trajectory towards becoming a very bad person. However, and somehow, the move to another state affected him in such a manner that he effectively began learning how to be a human being.…

i’m standing in a dark closet dreaming / dreaming like a monkey / what a monkey sounds like / what a monkey sounds like when it stubs it’s toe…