United States

"the audience is only safe when the story isn't about them."

they/them - probably listening to sufjan stevens

Message from Writer

an important piece by outoftheblue- https://bit.ly/3dBxv5r

black lives matter & pride is over but the fight for lgbt+ rights is year round.

bio quote is from the magnus archives

fragments of flashes of vignettes

August 8, 2019


october: reject your circadian rhythm; never let the elongated nights pull you down. don't drown don't drown. chase the remnants of sunlight like a hound on a trail that never ends. we beat our clubs, we open our gaping mouths with rotting teeth to say that we're all grown up now, but only babbles come out.

november: we cover our mouths with our shirts and cough up the dead fire in our lungs. smoke cages our breath, and we fan our lashes against the ash-filtered sunlight, hacking like cats. when the streets are empty, you can't help but think of it as a kind of apocalypse. it's silent now like the pages at the end of a book.

december: a fake christmas tree at safeway, feather-fingered piano kids that pour out carols like radio stations--- the radio is monotonous now. i can hear the plastic smiles. i have dreams that they eat me with two rows of artificially white teeth. i figure that since they don't have seasons here for 3/4 of the year, they have to cram it into these last few months. still, i miss the days when i didn't scavenge on leftover advent calendars in january, when i forced myself to sleep so christmas would come sooner.

i find myself, again, at the back of the bus, and they chant off-key like headaches.


february: catches like gasoline and burns just as fast. the faces around me shimmer; water vapor; are they really the same ones as before the new year? their names taste like chemicals on my tongue now. i go to sleep with the creeping dread that the world ended on december thirty-first, and i missed it.

may: we sit outside in brittle blue chairs and listen to the muffled drums and pianos coming from inside, two different tempos snapping at each other like dogs. the sun is a cattle prod in the mornings and ruthless on its slow trek in the sky, but the evenings, when we smuggle them through, are more beautiful than before. subdued violet. later, they make us dance in gym, and the air is waterlogged with hand sanitizer.

july: i miss when i had things to write poetry about. i'm scared that i've wrung the words out already; that i am dry. i only echo what i dream at night and recycle unused lines. summer is about hollowing out precious time, inches of days homing their way back during the witching hours no matter how many times you set them free, and i hollow hollow (hollow) my time out with a scalpel that i don't know how to wield.  

soon i'll find myself, again, at the back of the bus, and they'll chant off-key like headaches.
yes, i know i should be reading contest entries and working through reviews, but i found a journal i wrote in this year and i thought there were some solid lines in there so i polished them up and spat them out onto here. please leave a comment if you're going to like; likes don't help writers!


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  • outoftheblue

    this is weird but your work is so, goddamn comforting to read. you wrote this a year ago and i've only just discovered it. wtw is slowly going to crap but this makes it better.

    about 1 year ago
  • she’s-got-a-story

    thought i was the only one that wrote fragments like this
    this is soulful and scattered and poetry
    and it feels like reading you and it feels like knowing you

    about 2 years ago
  • The Moving Finger Writes

    Quite lovely, truly.

    about 2 years ago
  • Anha

    wow!! i've always loved your writing, but your vignettes bring me an emotion i wasn't sure existed till you put it so perfectly in words. a feeling so obtuse, you need a metaphor just as slanted to make sense of it. the rhythm of your poetry is like a beating heart, a prayer, a how-to manual for living, but not how they want you to. the beating drum of impermanence behind your words - nothing lasts forever, they seem to whisper, as you condemn dismembered radio voices and plastic chairs to mortality. july of 2019 resonates with me the most - the fear that originality will die. this poem encompasses humanity, the human experience. no words can say how this nostalgia of the now makes me feel. wonderful work.

    about 2 years ago
  • jaii

    I love this! The imagery is spectacular and I love the repetition of the bus situation. My favorite part is probably july. Because I relate to it so much at the moment

    about 2 years ago
  • artificialaorta

    i think february might be my favourite here, although I'm not sure I can explain why. I think it's the feeling of displacement that comes around by the end of january and the beginning of february when just then you realize you are at the start of Something New (and because it is New, it must be Important.... but why doesn't it feel any different than before? is it just me? is it just us?), of this Gap in time and routine, of being out of touch. love the style! i've got a very similar snippet thingy called 'string theory' also from my journal/log kinda thing. very interesting to see how another person lives their lives, records their daily impressions. thank you for sharing!

    about 2 years ago
  • Tanner Pratt

    i loooooove this. the way you capture a different feeling and personality into each section is phenomenal, but they also provide a groovy coherency. especially love the line about the world ending. ugh just got me. keep it up my pal.

    about 2 years ago