To be a living thing is also to be mortal, and in the document the life of the draft ceases. It is terrifying in its finality, in the ways it expects an actualization of my best, my finest. It looms. It reads like an obituary, the summary of a life.
untitled 6
Ephemera are fitting vessels for the seed of the draft, for the idea. And then the draft grows beyond them.
untitled 6
WELCOME TO ROOM 0018
HORSES ON THE BEACH, HALF FORGOTTEN VOICES
She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires.
sunday morning
Spring is always like what it used to be
town of spring once again
Spring opens like a blade there
the glass essay
Hairdresser in town found God, closes shop every Tuesday
the glass essay
Something inside it reminds me of childhood—it is the light of the stalled time after lunch when clocks tick
the glass essay
You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?
She shifted to a question about airports.
the glass essay
We are coming to the edge. We are beginning to lose it.
032C
He attributes this mercenary intellectualism to his profound doubt about the existence of truth.
032C
Louis Cachet, better known as Varg Vikernes, is a Norwegian musician and author best known for his early black metal albums and later for his crime
wikipedia
approach excellence not by refinement to an ever purer shape: it is by their sturdiness and their frailty: a combination of opposites, economy and luxuriance, lightness and dark.
ceramics
You were either a mod, or a rocker, but not both. Around the time the playlist was invented, our souls got split apart by this process.
jw Anderson
You were either a mod, or a rocker, but not both. Around the time the playlist was invented, our souls got split apart by this process.
jw Anderson
It began with lunch.
MILK, EGGS, WELLBEING
To be a whacher is not a choice. There is nowhere to get away from it. no ledge to climb up to—like a swimmer who walks out of the water at sunset shaking the drops off, it just flies open.
the glass essay
just a crease in daylight.
Disappearance was a game to him,
my mother
unsurprised
when he did not appear for the wedding
dance of the western union
It occurs to me I’ve spent too much of my life staring at someone else’s sentences in a rebar dawn
funny you should ask
The two of them read it while, beside them, a girl with milk for eyes fondled the braille.
MY PILGRIMS
We want to see the Twin Towers reconstituted on rewind – two stiff fingers suddenly raised, as if their crumbling facades in reverse could undo a decade of drone strikes, digital surveillance, death, and terrorism.
032C
Death is like a human saint.
No one knows a thing about it.
Not the president. Not the Pope.
Not even the poets.
It’s better to buy something you want
and spill all over it at some party in Brooklyn
than to have never bought it at all.
Ike and Maria met in Berlin in the summer of 2022 and immediately disliked each other.
Bassvictim
Caésar Vallejo is cry cry crying about how he will die in the rain, in Paris, on a Thursday. Poor little sad sack, poor bruised pear. It’s inevitable, death. What can you do?
With All My Road
“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” Basically: how you say it is how you think it. And, more dramatically: if you can’t say it, you can’t think it.
With All My Road
