June 28, 2021

A quest for consolidation

Is it okay to keep some posts short? I’ve intentionally kept this from becoming a cesspool of small thoughts, but I’d like to entertain the idea of small posts as prompts to be poofed up later. I have loads of ideas sitting in drafts that don’t see daylight because they become deflated over time—created when I was inspired to write but couldn’t make the time and then struck with static impotence upon revisitation.

Spending the week writing on a laptop for work invokes a faint feeling of illness when I attempt to type out personal thoughts on the weekend. But how else? Analog, sure, though the posts would have to be digitized eventually. If only OCR results were scarily accurate instead of plain scary.

To the topic of discussion—I remembered I have old posts on Medium, among other self-publishing outlets, and wish to migrate them here. I’m not sure whether they’re better off deleted or archived privately. Suppose as long as they’re date-stamped, they can do no harm to the progression of my writerly voice as it crawls up the archive, if progression is even noticeable. Nor could properly chronologically-sorted content skew the inconsequential perception of my currently held beliefs any more than that content already does existing externally from this site.

And so the migration begins.

March 11, 2021

Lose yourself

Sometimes I’m writing and really get outside the text processor but not quite as far as beyond the screen. I’m dancing on a digital frontier, peeking over the edge of an editor window at the wallpaper plastered behind it.

I open my papers library and furiously start shifting backgrounds until one sticks, then furiously shift again to make sure it’s right. When I’m in the mode to write I need the right environment, and every alteration adds friction to the process. I can never get quite as lost as I want to be.

It’s essential to not have a damned clue where you are when you start writing because that’s the only way you can be sure you ended up somewhere new.

Vaporwave laxatives

Today at the pharmacy I gazed upon brilliant packaging for bowel bubblers. Intestine ticklers. Gut gravy. Inner-abdominal aerodynamics.

So many medications had boxes that would make your eyes bleed so you’d end up with an even longer receipt. Not this one. Something about it was cool. I could imagine Morpheus opening this box over the strobe-lit sink at a rave.

Something about it told me the package designer did not intend for it to be perceived the way it was, and that makes it all the more sincere.

Sincerity in the scaffolding

Some things feel better than others, and you ought to act on the intuition that guides you toward what’s good. Then grab an x-ray machine, laser-splicer, endoscope, and tweezers to take it the hell apart. Ask yourself what makes it better and treat yourself to the answer.

I’ve found it to frequently parallel with the past. How an object, idea, service, sermon, community, or pound cake came about can tell you why it’s deserving of your delegation.

History ain’t ancient and abstract—it’s eight minutes ago when you took a last swig of lukewarm coffee and weaseled your way to this wordstuff.

Motives. Karmic consequence. Momentum. Don’t follow the money, follow the molecule.

March 5, 2021

Golf Shack

there are times when
a blue awning
on a slender pole
far back between two trees
kisses drops of rain
makes hair stand atop the knees
the daisies droop oh dreary day
yet hold their gold
the gold’s to stay
boulders bould and benches weep
bring the night it is to keep


Written c. summer 2014 at a mini golf course I worked at behind the counter, doling out clubs and chipped ice with sugar syrup. I read, did push-ups, and played games on a clunky laptop to pass the time. Some days I’d work with a friendly, weathered woman named Ginger who once traded a cigarette for a boat of fries at the adjoining restaurant.

Many familiar faces came through. There was an encounter with a therapist I’d seen once or twice—I forget why but it probably had something to do with appeasing my mother. We pretended we didn’t know each other, though maybe it was just me pretending and she never even recognized me.

Besides Ginger, there was a college girl named Amy1 who dreamt of working as a museum curator. She’d regale me with historical happenings to help pass the time. It was quite a waste to pay more than one person to work the shack. Today, many years later, I think the restaurant hands out clubs. Minus one summer job for the listless teen.


  1. I’m not sure if I should be using real names. I’d feel bad jeopardizing anyone’s privacy. But the name Ginger is too lovely not to use and perfectly describes Ginger. She was potent and had a definite presence, could calm your stomach and really neutralize your palate. Amy was none other than Amy the Curator. Any other name would be an injustice. And then there was Ben, who I’d been in a musical with in high school. The transient souls of the shack.↩︎

poetry