imperfectly arranging electrons in the ether
this is clear: you will die, eventually. eventually, no one will remember. your bones, eventually, will be excavated. they will ponder your life. they will get things wrong. they will argue theories versus theories versus geological theories. careers will be made on the lengths of your ligaments. academics will be heckled by journalists. politicians & hucksters will retell your story for vacuous…
stop all efficiencies. lounge in dappled light warming kitchen tile. take heed of the cat: what does she need? not you. the day will unfurl as days are wont to unfurl. so too the work. write a little. walk. meet friends. ignore your phone. cross no wine-dark seas without emergency cash & well-inked pens. edit but slightly drunk. beware fools bearing cups empty of wisdom. damn deadlines. write a…
the books teeter in piles & still my days are marked by pages read & unread, notes dashed, cascades of footnotes & marginalia, annotations unattended, spines splitting, covers dinged & the damned mad scribbler pencils lines faster than I can edit
all your heroes die deaths of over exposure or scattered obscurity, even the ones who made crossroad deals with the devil in the pale moonlight; they die doing what they love, their fans old & sad & grasping too hard at past straws, the groupies now throwing support bras & popping arthritis pills, riding home on mobility scooters soon to be abandoned in empty parking lots & yes, sometimes the…
Writing is a social contract between writer & reader that only the writer is obliged to uphold: you write forward across space & time & hope the words find a home in the heart or mind (or maybe both) of whomever reads your words & for this reason & this reason alone writing is an innately human endeavor, like most artistic endeavors. AI & LLMs are not writing machines; they are algorithmic word…
To hear her tell it: Not a damn thing . Me? I agree.
I'm still waiting for my life to resemble the cover of a thirty-five cent thriller hot-headed killer cold-hearted lover silhouettes with nothing going on or taking off the rack spins with lurid colors gold key comics & uncle scrooge cussing at money & the bad girls lean a certain way & the bad boys lean a certain way & you too lean a certain way which is to say toward whatever it is they're…
in the frozen section tiktokers stroke phones for views while wrinkled divorcées curse carts & ex-husbands & shake their heads remembering a past when they too were worth looking at unfiltered & unaware of the economy ahead & the siren calls of steakums & mrs. paul & pot pies in bed
when everything smells like clams & cornflakes where you gonna put your walrus when it rains
solstice quarter moon summer evening wanes wrens bicker in honeysuckle