the void as per. photo by akira

in jami, joseph's escape from zulaikha takes the form of a trans-reveal

at the critical moment, as if remembering he is a man, joseph becomes an agent of pure access who penetrates through every door. no longer the fish or gazelle, he is likened now to a falcon. then she tears off his clothes lol

realised today that every prose project i've ever started has been an attempt to retell the story of alageyik or kafka's the bridge

i'm not even mad about it anything to be out of allentown

missed you too new york

not five minutes back in manhattan and i have been shat on by a pigeon with IBS

it's rabbit summer

per anne carson: before and after are of no interest to me, i put microphones all over the ground and wait for the miracle

at the heart of that thing we call The Life there is a black box, an unanalyzable and aporetic moment-of-change, or of exchange. as between life and death, between cities or countries, between one sex and another. like a throw of dice, or a leap into faith, we do this over and over

nothing like two transsexuals in a slightly beat up classic car

paging through the çolpan novel only to get bashed upside the head by back to back passages on the intellectual love of god and the virtues of a well-maintained 1961 pontiac tempest

the naturalness of the greater body's desires, the appalachians like dessiccated breasts

strip-mined hillsides like the face of the moon. nothing to hide, which means (anne boyer) something to show

thinking about copper stripping, bright-wire calving out of insulation. real umbilical

wanted to walk out on that branch as one would turn down a dark alley in what rumi called the 'cities of love'; i have no idea what he meant by this except maybe that when you find the city deserted you must choose to live there anyway

her cipher is the eastern hemlock

phyllis a bony, frugal west virginian widower in her mid-sixties. she loves her rogue son, and she's a good deal less naive and a good deal more malignant than her demeanor otherwise suggests

it's important that a novel's characters number among them a woman called something like phyllis

embarrassed to realize i've subconsciously reincarnated this same lover as a side character in the prose manuscript. is that an unpleasant realization? years ago sarah manguso looked at me and said flatly that we never escape our subjects, i hated it then, what about now? idk

one from the archives

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