An every-so-often blog.
October 30, 2022I guess this is the monthly check-in. I'd planned on being more consistent with this site but I haven't been. Lol. Here are a couple things I've been working on:
September 28, 2022: It's almost 1 AM here, and I'm sitting here at the beginning of something that feels very massive and expansive: HTML coding. Current music is Baltimore to Fair Play by The KLF.
I'm hoping this personal blog can become a place for me to share imagery and ideas without feeling too connected to gratification or social media algorithms- so this site will likely contain lots of poems and photos of cool things I'm into! It might delve into being a style blog at times too. Maybe it will become a regular release kind of deal, or maybe it will just be updated as it's updated. Anyways, here are a couple poems I've been working on.
I
a bearded wooden watcher
legs crossed, sits below swirling god-stone
tucked into rich stain, faded
the same way my cowboy coat
feels soft to the touch around the buttons
roman pillars have concave curves,
just like a six-shooter.
coiled around themselves with mechanical precision
sometimes when I hesitate in a moment,
I picture my eyeballs
firing from their sockets
and flying towards whatever I’m looking at
like some shot out of a kung fu film.
I’m doing it right now, looking
down a bookshelf tunnel
illuminated by reflected leaves
II
past the square and protruding portal of trees
a tree falls and cracks the pavement
there are little splinters in opening asphalt, in
the blossoming hardness
your wound is still tender
it glows red with love
as cold wind, telegraphed by trees– rushes up–
excitedly chapping our edges
when were our brains-and-bodies split open?
when did we have egg yolks beaten in them
so we could no longer think with a clear mind
i’m scabbed over
stupidly, i’m still picking
Dye Bath
Miles Davis in a denim button down is wearing my favorite color.
So is the broken open night sky light has robbed of stars.
The deepest reaches of a lake’s depths I can’t touch- even if I hold my breath to the point of passing out-
are robed in my favorite color.
Shuttle looms are weaving my favorite color in Japan, on 1940s machinery shipped there
like Little Boy and Fat Man, gifts from the United States.
When I run my hands over my selvedge jeans
I see pinpricks of white like the Milky Way
My favorite color is about the process
Who else would pick the flower
and soak fabric in baths so rich with dye
their fingers turn blue?
In Oregon, there’s a man who ate so much silver his skin turned blue
maybe he would’ve preferred to turn indigo.
Verbal Variations on Visual Variations on Noguchi
flashes phallus
debuting deviance
in 16 mm reel to reel running
camera up sculpture like running
fingers down things
too tortured
to hold it together
in my mid century
modern dream, a big
construct of washi-paper curves
sits in my living room
but what’s all this
untuned violin screaming about?
Menken mangles more
than i want
untitled
20 past midnight
is still-time
we emerge from a frog flanked tree tunnel
damp and shuffling our feet back and forth in an imbalanced dance
there in my headlights
animal shapes with heads bent
seeing these naive deer
each step threatens to break our communion
each turn of the head is a new wince
stilly emerging
like clouds across the sky
family members in the bushes
of the student-faculty parking lot.
she didn’t see them until
I pointed them out