1. why write

immortality is the (con)temporary dream 

words reveal the insides of black boxes we call ourselves and everything else we assume, often incorrectly, but who and how are we to know better if we cannot live what someone else lives even if their story really becomes our story in understanding /
everyone is the same yet they are not.

nothing really means anything

2. aesthetic

illegible and soon forgotten notes-to-self littering a grey room with one dusty window looking out to nothing but clouds that are undecided about whether it will rain (it probably will)

3. process

there are words that arrange themselves in particular ways from which people derive meaning
i push a button and something happens

4. the moment right now

not real clothes. furniture that isn’t mine in a room that isn’t mine in a town that isn’t mine on a day that is mine but who am i to claim it. thoughts of wandering when i am already lost. time is a changing light. 


everything arrives the right length and as it should.

but still i would like to make less sense, sometimes.

6. a writer is

the cliche of a night sky is that song you can’t stop listening to is a memory is your mother is a tiger is a bird is a pen is a cage is an empty hand is the feeling of a cold bed is the world over your shoulders is anybody really is a definition of questionable value when it is all just labels and boxes and we are infinite and uncontainable.



two memories overlap / I ask
my body the same question twice / 
to my surprise, its answer remains 
unchanged / and I do not know
which instance to think of — which
him / this splinter of time , right
under my skin , now swollen (once
more infected) / I remain unlearned,
only hoping to find another way
to word my queries for later / 
julienne this poem , serve it as
a side-dish at my table (of one,
as always) /


A hundred light years away from here,
In a place where stars never go blind,
You will love me back, as I love you dear,
There we’d share a love of no other kind.

In the cold of the night, we’d share our warmth
as we sleep naked on the pavement
To both of us we say “You’re all I want.
A life spent without you is as cold as cement.

A hundred light years away from here
We’d need not to break clocks, cut telephone lines
For there, in that far-away place, I’m in your arms dear
And every inch of your skin is all mine

There in that place, we’d live a thousand years
our hearts will sing, and to the skies, our souls will soar
But here, in this place, all is but a dream, my dear
You loving me back will happen nevermore.

A Hundred Light-Years Away From Here | (j.d.a)