Sunday, December 3, 2017


I stop by and I peer in, but I never say anything. I haven't in a while, and I haven't tried for even longer. I've made it clear to myself that this space isn't for the voice I have now. But there are certain things I hold on to. Certain things I can't completely look away from. It might always be that way. But I'm giving myself credit for acknowledging. 

It's a quiet Sunday. Almost all my Sundays are quiet. Anna leaves for the day to go to church and spend time with her family. I stay home and hang out with the boys; Rover, Arlo, and sometimes Sarah. I stay in bed a lot. I watch movies that I've missed. I read articles I've been holding off. This Sunday has been no different. I've lined up my to-do list in my head, and the first thing on that list is put off getting started on my to-do list. My laundry is waiting. A shower is waiting. I've only gone downstairs to grab an awful lunch. I'm playin' games with a box of Ferrero Rocher that I coulda sworn I brought up here to use as stand for...I can't recall. I've had 3. I've had 3 more. Half the box is gone. I coulda sworn I don't like chocolate. But half the box is gone. 

My brother has been sleeping on my couch for several weeks now. He's slappin' his music through the new sound system that Xavier and I agreed to go splitsies on. I never paid my half. Splitsies just means he got it this time with the senseless purchases and I'll get the next. Splitsies is a functional system that contributes solely on the whims of our extravagant and self-indulgent consumption (which is most of them). I think Blithe might have a good taste in music. But I can't tell because I don't listen to music. Anymore. In fact, I've been trying to play something from my iPod just so I could be listening to something...but it's several feet too far away for me to care and the old iPod on my side table drawer is dead and ancient. The only sounds in my bedroom are the ticks of a clock I stole from work, a cawing out my window, and my brother's potentially good music taste permeating through the cracks of my door. 

It's a quiet Sunday. 

Thursday, May 4, 2017

every time i leave my parents house, i look out my windows and see my dogs sitting at the front door, wagging their tails at the sight of me. 

i still cry driving away. 

my heart is so tender

and i'd say that this was an embarrassing admission

but it's not, and i miss them all the time. 

can't explain it. and i'm not sure how to express it or how to relate to someone else about it. maybe if my sister moved out too she'd get it. 

but for now, i quietly think of them as i continue to go on with my days. 

and maybe a tear or two will escape while i work through the mundane. 

can't imagine how i'd cope as a parent. 

i said i wouldn't disappear. i've talked about how of all the types of people, i wouldn't be like them and disappear. 

but i think that maybe

it's ok to disappear.

i have shit to do. 

Monday, April 10, 2017

Tuesday, December 27, 2016


Maybe she's eclipsing everything else.

How is it that everything else feels ordinary?



I can't find a song more beautiful

a film more beautiful

a dream more beautiful.

Not a view more beautiful

or words more beautiful.

If I should be in fear

or in panic

should it set in soon?

If this will ever carve me out entirely

If this will ever...

Friday, December 2, 2016

On Wanting Something You Don't Have


After empathy came a wave of envy. A wave smattered with a faint recall of something festive. Something we all once knew before. Lime green. There goes the center seat in the back. No seat belt. I don't think about it often. But when I do, you should see me trying to blink back into clarity. 

After the wave of envy, I just wanted to scream it out. It seems so selfish. Surpassing selfishness even, and teetering a tip-toe to childishness. 

The apparition became a shadow. The apparition danced, but the shadow conversed into itself. For itself. A shattering transformation. Like a manifesting transcendance of something I'd always thought I'd have to use...but has never actually been mine. 

Denial trailed just footsteps behind me. 


The Trial.

ARCHIVE, FUCKERS (for Ace-like purposes)