the texture of the teeming earth is all the proof we need of lies; each second thought, a second birth, the sun, a way to cauterize the wounds that we inflict amid the casus belli of the day: the wager, always underbid, the silence, all we have to say.

alinear lunes (1)

the lost voice looked for in the white whistled chimes a pan of wan dread and blocked doors and sounds left to cry

that drowning feeling

swirling unspecified in the middle of a chaos poured from pitchers of deep rain cannons firing across the still december mourning for a lost adulthood framed by a little used childhood endeavor just brings sorrow what if i can't do it what if i'm not enough what if i what if what

blanking —

all the hammer blows. tractile and malleable — incessantly down. bent, shaped and worn complanate longing for rest.             — relentless —

Forested

Ninth-month tremulous Harbor intersecting voyage Sharing appetite

by products

A meditation on our role in the choices available to us

at the margin bleak

a white powder day, the buzzards swarming in circles above an inadequate dissonance finding winter across bleak margin, and a cross above frightened bushes huddled for warmth it is a winter’s choice that must be made in every season: to carry on, or be carrion