Work in Progress
You travel down
Humility road
Tossing ego
Out the passenger side
Topside
Like an ocean wave purging shells on the shore.
You travel down
Humility road
Tossing ego
Out the passenger side
Topside
Like an ocean wave purging shells on the shore.
My poetry had been in a stagnant place for some time, so I switched my focus to collage for a little while. It was the exact thing I needed to get unstuck. Here’s a recent piece (with beginnings of a poem layered in).
Featured in The Rumpus, my first pub of 2022: “We drove under power lines with putty-colored plastic spheres threaded through the center, dotting the skyline. I asked him what they were for. ‘That’s where someone threw their ball in the air and it got stuck.'”
A lyric essay I wrote about art and quilting and grief and hope and love featured in Michigan Quarterly Review.
Writing is work. I write despite the fear of being judged, of making a mistake, of losing a loved one. I write despite deciding there’s nothing new left to say, that it’s all been said before.
My writing mood board full of quotes, color symbolism, and textile art collected over several years
“I wrote about my dolls. I wrote about the dogs I owned on a video game. I don’t recall a point in time when I consciously thought about the transition from reader-only to reader-writer. It just happened.”
“Skilled writers…see the sentence as the ur-unit, the granular element that must be got right or nothing will be right.”
Marc Kaminsky: “…the saddest thing is to see a person struggle week after week against the knowledge of who he is, the knowledge that is always trying to come home to him.”