summer 2025, still updating.






There is none like thee among the dancers

Logorrheic in crisis

Stands in the corner dangerously

the ephemera is still in suitcases and I can’t yet turn to it to locate me when I’m scared. It’s impossible for me to keep my whole life in mind and unbearable when I’m reminded by too much of it. I think I need to exist to myself.

”Ethan I’ve been drinking. I hope I am, I hope you are, a ghost wearing the skin of an angel.”

I will always regret cruelty more than misplaced kindness. I will always want to forgive you. I will always admire you you in the deep end of spirit.

It was an interview with Henry Miller, his point was about having a Tibet within- A birdhouse in your soul?- Yes exactly- They might be- They might be, they could, and they are.

jaws wine (not a typo); the only araki movie I didn't torrent in high school

She’s got all her worldly possessions in her backpack and that’s including spray paint. They’re sitting next to a church and he says why don’t you paint that wall? And she paints cockroaches and jellyfish. And he says that’s pretty good, and he paints skulls, and she realizes it’s him. And he leaves her a 14 million dollar painting. Which she’s loved since she was a little girl.
That’s pretty awesome.
It’s beautiful. It’s beautiful. Listen to this: ”...They’ve never met, but it doesn’t matter. Art teaches us to mourn one another.”

Entering rabbitholes and staying there for days. Not breaching for air or making recourse to baseline.

What you think of me is up for investigation

the last notes section was 5,180 words and 3,018 of them were mine. I want it to be read by like five people, or no one, or literally anyone who’d get it. I am well acquainted with the trade off. But what I need is just consolidation and that was the whole original point of easily command-f-navigable documents no one looked at. and I need to stash longer stuff somewhere.

Like at easter when they swing the thurible, and there’s wood and lillies and tall candles in the hot talent show spotlight, and he’s in a black suit if you can call it that, it’s a kind of unconvincing black, linen black. his hair is full of sweat. I want to write with that kind of heady simplicity. I wrote something immediately after I heard it the first time but it doesn’t really matter without sound. I miss playing piano at school so bad. I wish I was a baritone. and I will find you who has nothing to say.

”Fern and mercy. Form and dream destroyed. Need the cliff torn down. To hold hands and stare down the raw void of the day.
Be my contraband.”

real true dichotomies

”Ryan has done a, a work of literature in my private messages.”

It’s always good to have something or someone you don’t understand: spooky action at a distance

I spend the day going back and forth on the red line and not telling anyone. I spend the day looking at beech trees and wondering whether it’s worth it to buy cigs up here. Sometimes I think everything had to happen the way it did, and at the end I wouldn’t change it, or forfeit aftermath. I think about inevitability and distances, and how somewhere there’s a number constantly calculating, classified to god, until it’s 0. Though one time it infared into the negatives.
My dad wanted me to get an earlier train and thinks It’m hurting myself. I played the end half of Heavy Metal for him as we trespassed through wild green warrens of 12 1/2 mph driveways, trying to see the lake. I’m ok, I’m glad I got the late one. Harvard and trees. I think I’m ok. I wish I had more time to go to the playground or mycelium or something with n/t/m, but I wanted to be able to see the graffiti along the railroad. I’m ok with just existing. Same as going to anything else alone. I should stop avoiding it so often.

Though I wouldn’t really wanna meet someone who was

It’s turning off the ac to hear the music better

Deep down, you would not rather be taming horses.

”to me the best kind of art paints a target in the silhouette of the artist and fires with impunity”

so up her alley I thought I was in her backyard

Remember, when you’re dancing, to leave room for sex

I look like the part of me that loves this

Contenders for gayest diss tracks ever

between your f-stop and your other F stop

your writing has good posture

Last Two Speakers of a Dying Language Refuse to Speak to Each Other

What I’ve Been Up To
I am riding out desire. I am so violating the biological imperative. I am dickriding for Audrey Hepburn. I am at work, actually, and dancing on the clock. I am buying a red bean bun from Harper’s in shiny quarters. I am going to the party later. I am screenshotting a video you posted, captioned ”am I not uniquely brilliant or uniquely depraved...?” because it’s funny and you are both of those things. I am taking the train to Coney Island and walking down the entire boardwalk next to the stationary alabaster sky and getting fuck all out of it, except a couple spots I could probably sing as loud as I wanted. I am on a mission. I am looking at all this fucking rock n roll music, I guess. I am eating shit leaping over the Allen St garden strip and my palm is bleeding. I am downloading grindr and deleting it after 45 minutes. I am pretty sure my friend forgot this White Light/White Heat t-shirt is actually theirs so I’m not saying anything. I am trying to take a deniably provocative photo of mosh pit bruises. I am writing something like David Wojnarowicz’s ”Someday this kid” because my mom sent a photo of me when I was 2, where my birthmark is red and raised and my eyes are almost solid dark blue and I have never been in love with anyone and the only songs I know are You Can Close Your Eyes by James Taylor and Cinnamon Girl by Neil Young. I am pretty sure the best song you’ll (another) ever write is in between lidocaine and the light porn demo. I am happy about how the opposite window also loves de Saint-Exupéry. I am running out of ink on top of freight trains. I am pulled into hugs by faces from the dark swell of the tunnel. I am skimming the published version of the interview someone sent me and grinning because as far as I can tell she changed absolutely nothing. I am concerned about how the last several times I had sex it felt like I was doing psychic terrorism on myself. [A month ago] I am on the train wearing, like, cargo pants and a t-shirt, a normal t-shirt, and an hour before I was basically just physically and psychologically torturing someone. I am not giving myself a 9 for the paddle, as they say. I am not thinking about stuff like that when I get off, though, I’m mostly thinking about the river of your hands running through my hair on the bed in my old room, which is not good and probably a catastrophe. I am avoiding getting off for the time being. I am on the roof. I am throwing the keys from the fire escape. I am crying because Brian Wilson is dead, and it’s silly, but the sadness is so simple and unanimous, because he made beautiful music and now he’s dead. I am deciding to learn to read sheet music. I am pretty good at writing in languages I don’t actually know, you know. I am reserving practice time at Greenwich House. I am thinking about jeans pressing against each other and freckles aligning. I am adding I See Myself to a list of songs to burn a CD for and play in a car with blue Tennessee plates, when it visits. I am hanging out with Clive Davis class of 2025 and appreciating the way they talk about pop music.

Now I’m not your slut/cause I have a gun -frank

I was so internal. I was writing in spirals and I hated myself so much all the time. do blackout poetry on your crisis center intake form from 2022. I never want to feel like this again.

You mean the Nazi who dumped you over Fourth of July weekend?

It makes me happy that my sheets are clean.

I saw you walking up stairs underwater, mysterious green, light refracted, clarifying auburn, wearing white. I saw you at the worst times, a few months out before and after, and only happy in the ones with time travel. Actually, maybe all of them had it, but in different directions. What I want for you is the opposite of time travel.

God emperor of yonkers

”tiny Emily Dickinson so big that I carry in my pocket everywhere. And you just read three poems of Emily. She is so brave. She is so strong. She is such a passionate little woman. I feel better.”

”I would’ve much preferred fucking Records for Bushels of Kale...Records for ConEd bill. Send em some Beatles LPs once in a while.” -Josh

It’s the difference between walking and pacing

Quiet son’s public meltdown

In pangs that reverb until fading

”Sometimes a gun is just a gun. But not this time.”

And there’s no blood work in the wasteland...
So try to be what God wants you to be
And say that ”I love you again”

sleeper hits for weeping dipshits never rang so true

All knowing darkens as it builds.

There are some things you can only say on paper but some things you can only remember in your notes section.