Only Time

feb 4

Impish impatience. Scuttles around eyeing the hands of time—move faster. Sludge, drudge, space that warps—move faster. Built-in distractions, like tea, pasta, zombie—move faster. I egg on time, lament time, tickle time,  ignore time—time, you tease, move faster.

2.4.18| Daily Art


Bright Eyes, Cotton Candy

pink abstractions.jpg

cotton-candy-like, the kind that swells in
your heart, airy and sweet

expands in your sternum spills
over your ribcage grows dense in

your chest, lightweight
in love

I peruse my brain for other
forms of analogous matter

but is it matter? 
and if it was, could I touch

it? or taste it? because I can feel it
spilling over puddling into

radiating outwards
as it pools under

bright lights, bright eyes
tears spill over, form rivulets

Metaphorically Speaking


A photographic love funk.

What happened to your camera?

You know how you’ll be infatuated with a person and wake up one day and realize you just don’t feel the same anymore? That’s been me and my camera. I just haven’t felt the same.

Patiently waiting to fall back in love.


A broken Mac battery, a confiscated iPhone, starved heart.

It’s seven in the morning here. 

Talking to you is like nibbling on a piece of quiche. Except I am starved. And my appetite is barely whet.


Weirdness a lá relief.

I wish I could go to GameStop.

Oh, I can go to GameStop and photograph the whole store and send it to you! 

Most of the time I’ll let my weirdness, like air, seep out squeaky-high through the small opening of a balloon that is me. Being back is like letting it all escape from this significantly enlarged valve. Weirdness! Is! Liberation!

Date Night

Anniversary. We’d gone out to a comedy show, watched two groups improv-battle it out over dinner and drinks. I remember the guac–partitioned from the salsa, of course– cheesy enchiladas, peering at his eyes, room erupting with peals of laughter, looking towards the stage to see funny girl #2 in pink toppling backwards. I felt buttery, warm, happy. The show was pretty good–the first group was a little awkward; the second group, phenomenal. Things might be funnier when you’re tipsy, but the second group was funny. A duo of pros oozing comic chemistry on-stage. Hilariousness in their own right.

Reading Rumi

Lately, I’ve been reading love Mad Poems of Rumi. Ever since my English teacher said Rumi was a whirling Dervish who spat his poems stream-of-consciousness to followers who then hastily jot them down–well, I’ve had a hard time getting the imagery of a twirling man (arms spread, seized by love and/of language) out of my head. In these poems, he is consumed by love. Then I wonder if Rumi believed in soul mates and if he thought Shams was his.