I pen my thoughts about picking up writing, continuing to write from a place of vulnerability, and what ramifications it might have for my work as a writer, as well as its impact on my loved ones and I. I also think about a path forward, although I cannot guarantee that I can take it.
Sometimes I have little to say / crossing the stream that runs / behind the backs of houses / I watch my self in the puddle / a coin-mirror lying belly-up / a glimpse of what could be / Nowadays my eyes are itchy / and I go into town goal-less / with my pockets […]
hope is this ladder you build for yourself as you’re climbing it into heaven / every rung is a bone pulled from your own spine / so delicate that a strong wind could send you toppling into hell / hope is too much for me / sometimes the moreI climb the more I lose track […]
I am writing this poem without having seen the end of it, without thinking of what can emerge from this process or not, much like hatching an egg, a child in the incubator of the womb, because all creation is birth and all death is anti-birth; I am a schemer in a room of humans, […]
Every time it happened you told me that it was alright. That this is how the two of you clicked, like gears in some semiconductor. And every time I would think to myself of harmless bickering, like couples did in the dramas you watched. I found it funny once, as though the more you fought […]