December 31, 2019

The Glass Pocket

In the Carpathian Mountains on December 23rd I walked down an unlit corridor in a lodge hotel with a backpacker’s backpack packed on my back. On the side of that backpacker’s backpack was a stretched mesh pocket with a see-through cylinder of pastel-piss dessert wine pressed against another glass container twist-capped.

The twist-capped container had mineral gas water for the train that evening, but instead it sparkled across the fresh-mopped floor of the unlit corridor in the lodge hotel because there was no slippery sign and no lady with a mop and only soap and darkness and a boy headed for the stairs. I slipped and as slips happen, in an instant, I was on the floor and so was glass. The dessert wine was safe. The lady with a mop showed up out of the dark, back from cleaning some darkness. She brushed me off and held onto the black smudge on rushed blood around my arm, asking if I was okay instead of letting me make myself okay by snatching some okay towels from the bathroom. I tugged away while she continued to talk about mopping darkness and my smudge and how sorry she was but delighted that the dessert wine was okay.

The bathroom had towels and a man by the mirror fixing something else while I fixed my thing I was there to fix and we fixed our things separately before I decided to fix my backpack and left the room. There were two stair options in that unlit Carpathian hotel lodge corridor and I’d chosen the one with the suds. The bus would leave for the train shortly so I shoved a fist in my mesh stretch pocket slowly as one can shove and slithered out slivers of glass thin as whiskers and sharp as a sentence. My fingers glistened with flecks of fresh hemoglobin.

That backpacker’s backpack was supposed to be fit as fuck, trim as a sailor and forged to fight the whips of tree tips and lash of rain bullets. But glass is not of nature and sure cut through that mesh and tore straight cuts cross the one side.

I’d chosen the suds. Gravity set the slip-trajectory. The wine just up and braced itself. I thanked it later for surviving via tummy hug from the inside. It kept me lucid on the Ukrainian train.

December 14, 2019

Siri is my bitch

sensual cylindrical woman
wrapped tight in winterfresh fishnets
you domestic elongated donut
tail twisting tucked and
touching the hot socket
sapping electric life into
boomers and tweeters sliding
electron signal fingers on
copper coils pinching mics that
long for a loving Hey, Siri”

Siri is my bitch

October 29, 2019

The Off-path

Peeling back mountain’s powdered skin and tossing its infinite molecular extras aside, I, lost in the moment but sure of my path, am nudged gently by a billowy blow of wind just enough to fall into conversation with gravity. I, now lost in my path and so sure of the moment, involuntarily engrave my ass cheeks a meter deep in the silent madness of snow-cover.

The piste panders far above to the stimulus of hard plastics pleasuring it—an alpine love scratch, an exchange of precisely random scrapes. And that’s just how I feel, so precisely, acutely, exactly planted in the serenely chaotic emptiness of the off-path. I am really dug thick into it. Thick into a place not meant to be a place and a place I do not intend to be. A place intended for me. I hoist up and lean forward into nothing, hoping to rejoin with that something of the piste where sure path meets abandon at mountain rim and it doesn’t matter how whatever cascaded cascaded there, to that end.

A brief recollection of swerving off a ski slope in the Austrian Alps. Transcribed from notes taken during a workshop at Writing Retreat Bali.

The Off-path

August 28, 2019

Sunday Secrets

distilled and aged, a pen tip tongue prick kiss claws
crushed dandelion light treads through sallow bourbon glass
a fingerprint tick type taps hollow word through the wall

splinter boards brace worn-out window shades through which I saw
dust breaking sun beams searing ink-blot hymnal wit such mass
distilled and aged, a pen tip tongue prick kiss claws

leather-lick dull scrape taste hit blood stream gall
tree knot stomach pirouette point twist barre class
a fingerprint tick type taps hollow word through the wall

lil fur boy whisker-wackin lip smack cracker crumb in maw
Miss Milly pew-hop pastel red shoe drop clack bump ass
distilled and aged, a pen tip tongue prick kiss claws

sof rat scurry cross hot wood slat sun cut prism light raw
rainbow stain rub cheek ain’t got but a stub beak that lass
a fingerprint tick type taps hollow word through the wall

an I paint smile on Milly bell toll belly roll bird caw
sallow bourbon quick smooch tip toe trickle sweat sass
distilled and aged, a pen tip tongue prick kiss claws
a fingerprint tick type taps hollow word through the wall

A villanelle written c. spring 2018.

August 24, 2019

Editing & Organization

I’m reluctant to mention I have any form of OCD. It’s an overused word for something that I know people have been diagnosed with where symptoms are far more serious and life-blocking than one might assume. At the expense of sounding a little too politically correct, I’ll instead note that I do have some endless mental review process which forces my immediate environment to a certain level of sickly neatness.

You can imagine visiting my flat and finding many, many right angles—eyeballed measurements and micro-adjustments between every object. And I mean every. From the tilt of the teapot to the alignment of batteries in the drawer.

This is to say that when I endeavor to create something such as this personal collection of texts (the word blog feels too brutish), its public nature pushes my instinct for unfounded correctness even further. I’ll admit there is even some odd form of persistent pain in its maintenance.

It has been difficult and time-consuming to move between writing portfolio platforms and feels like an act of adultery to switch from one to another, especially after falling in love with the story of each platform’s creation and the beautiful minds behind them. Blot, which you are reading on now, comes after years of using Carrd by AJ. Carrd was and continues to be a brilliant option for micro-sites. But it was too open-ended for me, and an itch for perfection mixed with lack of design knowledge rubbed my brain raw.

Here are the two problems I hope to solve with Blot.


Because of my endless mental review process, it’s extraordinarily hard for me to tuck something away and consider it finished. I’d be a fool to think this is unique to me and am sure it is a common plight among artists. Knowing when to stop sounds so simple. Yet the backwards type of self-discipline required to do so is hard to pin down. For me, discipline exists in other parts of my life so that when it comes time to expel words I can do so without restraint.1 Writing becomes the exception.

Blot allows me to write and publish directly from my absolute favorite piece of software, Oliver Reichenstein’s iA Writer. It’s dangerously fun to use. And because I can access posts so quickly, the possibility to edit is always there. Published posts are just dormant text files, not printed pieces. But this is all well and good. If writing is my allowed impulse, so be it. This is my namesake website and I’ll edit to my heart’s content. As a result, though, it may be a bit useful for you to know that nothing you read here is artifact. The date stamps are lovely and accurate, but they don’t mean I haven’t been snooping around past files fixing tidbits2—unless I’m dead, of course. Even then, beware editorial seance.


Change of mind is important. It’s a very human trait, allowing us to adapt to our environments, adjust for intake of new information, and become more efficient overall. It’s discontent with the present state of things that leads way to updates and improvements—and organizational upheaval.

I plan to recycle my writing portfolio here. Old articles and essays are doing no good sitting in some folder on my machine. And while I readily accept that no one gives a damn about them, they are a manifestation of time and energy and deserve to at least be accessible if not for the sole purpose of public archive. It’s nice to see progress anyway, and just as nice to chuckle at the bullshit of yore.

This will lead to, as mentioned, some organizational fuzziness. It will take a lot of time to gather my many essays, articles, poems, and other scraps, and then to format them for this medium. They mostly all exist right now in some modicum of Markdown (thanks John Gruber), but it will still take time. And then comes the shuffle. Will folders be best? Pages? Organized by date or topic or keyword, quality, or genre? Who’s to say. I know I’d choose a method only to imagine later how it could be more structurally efficient. So for now, at the beginning, it will be a long stream of texts in tandem.

This longwinded post is to say that you, faithful reader, should expect changes to posts and page structure. I admire those bloggers3 who can keep consistent, alas, I cannot. Maybe it’s a bit like finding a lifelong partner—when it’s truly good, it will just stick. Until then, the shuffle.


  1. Some use substances like alcohol for the same purpose. I, at risk of sounding like an asshole, try to improve aspects of my life through discipline to achieve the same creative effect. At the time of this writing, however, I do still occasionally indulge in a drink.

  2. Maybe I should append edited articles with a note stating as much, in true journalistic fashion.

  3. There’s that wretched term again. Blogger sounds so insincere and writer so pretentious.

August 23, 2019


This is my next first post. There are a million ways to die, and a million and one ways to publish.

For a while I’d experimented with various ways to present my writings online, but they all resulted in an existential business card—pretty useless. And uselessness is no good.

David Merfield’s Blot feels right. It’s a lovely little place to host a mish-mosh of content in a minimal package. So here I am.

Typing now from Kyiv, I’ll gradually build this collection to some level of personal satisfaction and hopefully weasel into some niche along the way.

Let’s see where it goes from here.