I thought,
and sat down –
that’s what you expect me to do?

my personal muse,
my cornucopia –
should I refuse you?

write down that,
write down this,
I don’t care what you need!

You’re a muse,
a projected image!

mountains, mountains, mountains.
oceans, oceans, oceans.
The stars glittered,
and fuck,
I wiped them out with an eraser –

how ugly!
how disproportional!
I prefer light pollution,
and dirty streets;
the frontier,

drowning out your noise,
your lizard tongue –
fantastical beasts, be damned!

You spout your importance,
like some kind of God –
but all you are, muse,
is a parched shrub,
dying in the fire.


another wasteful session

I never finish words

, but it’s cozy to know the words stick around like when you freeze fireflies in amber: same colour bulbs, faint discolouration and make-up, like, like, like, whispers that don’t come out as whispers but full-formed delicacies; people look at you, but they turn back to their articles about the smog in Paris that’s choking the Eiffel built-finished for the 1889 World Fair, the same year as the Great Seattle Fire in which gentle-clothed-things grew on-top and grew and grew walls painted yellow and green and pink and blue, wasted eyes, we’re all colour-blind: I drink all wines, and write    some     words.

More Lesson Planning, More

Work that keyboard:
until your fingers
are little
bald peppers.
chunks-full of 
dirt mine. Rest.
Twenty-dash-four hours.
Cyclic wastage;
“What do you do?”
Silence. Can’t quite
cut off
the umbilical tongue;
the waft of
‘it is’ instead of ‘is’.

Dear Hyperlink: Pouring Rice

I’ve fallen into the rabbit hole of interactive fiction lately, or to be more specific, I’ve become curious about Twine. I’ve dabbled and lost myself in the hyperlink jungle, exploring and half-finishing interactions. I’ve finished one, and I’d like to show it to you. I called it Pouring Rice, and it’s a self-repeating dream tour that I finished in a day.

I intend this experiment to be the first of many interactive spots that will grace this slow-building blog.


I wore a red scarf that day:
it just felt right
since the day froze
and my hands strangled
the warmth of breath.

I felt a little angry that day:
can’t you tell?
I’d say nobody loved me so,
but the scarf of a stranger
dropped on the road.

What was that day?

I’d tell for a cruise to the Caribbean,
or a smoke, if you’d be so kind. 
Perhaps a meal for two:
one for me,
and the other… for me.

I wore this scarf on that day,
where I watched it all happen
there, on that road:
the snow turned spotted bright,
like cherry blossoms in Japan.

I once wished to go to Japan –
because who does not?
Now, I just dream it:
and no dream has failed me yet
as I continue to fight the bloody

bloody bloody