Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
Jul 1, 2024
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In my closet, I discovered a hidden door that led to a new room—I guess the door was in plain sight all along; I could just never bring myself to look and see what was behind it.
The first time I opened the door, the room was filled with men’s clothing and belongings that had been abandoned; I got the sense that they had been there a long time, but they just as easily could have last been touched yesterday. He told me to leave everything alone in the room, not to touch anything; that it wasn’t mine to take. I looked around, lingering for a long moment—everything somehow looked familiar. I closed the door shut. I wondered how anyone could have left so many beautiful things behind.
Secretly, I returned again to the room when I had some time alone and found it filled with women’s things now: little treasures and mementos and knick-knacks (he hates my knick-knacks because they are so frivolous and take up space and needlessly create clutter, he says in waking life, ever cold and rational) of a life well-lived; fabulous stylish accoutrements that would perfectly elevate an outfit; glamorous gowns that seemed like they would fit me and hug my curves just right.
In the corner, I found a wedding dress made of delicate shimmering off-white silk and organza, flowers hand-embroidered onto it with care. I ran my hands over it. It took my breath away.
I woke up with the song I had been listening to last night playing in my head.
Mar 1, 2025
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Bring forth to mind, if you will, the ill-fortuned Orpheus; Odysseus, ill-fortuned but cruel- and cleverest-enough to make it forward; now lovely Inanna; loving Dante; Fritti and Ida and so many other brothers and sisters; so many poems, songs; yes, meet me tonight in Atlantic City; I’m in love with a dying man, yes, yes; now the post-midnight train to Coney Island, smiling in the summer, tears in November; a minivan to Cape May one grey day; prison-taxi down to Long Beach with the sun coming up; one thousand leaps into the East River and the Danube and the Seine and then… this is just what comes to mind. Oil pipelines. Black licorice. Oh, coincidentally, have you yet read the fiction-piece One Hundred by brilliant blonde Zans Brady Krohn? (printed, of course, in Heavy Traffic 1 — where else?) Yes, that too comes to mind, naturally, yes, I think so… Terrific story. Atlantic City story. So, katabasis story. In more ways than one, really … And following: certain buildings, certain seasons of mood. I’m running dry. Greenlight on the edge of the dock. Absinthe and stolen vodka. “Curiousity killed the cat, satisfaction brought it back.” That’s half anabasis. I’m just spitballing. Trying to remember.
May 10, 2023
But now she stands there, perfectly still. Not a twitch, not a blink. Just a statue carved from grief or guilt or something colder. You’d think she couldn’t hear them. But she can. Of course she can. She hears everything. Sees everything.
And she says nothing.
There will be another dream tonight. I know it. The kind that comes soft and fast—like a knife, like a whisper. His face—or what my mind says was his face. Was it him? It doesn’t matter. It was him. It was his friend. That’s what matters.
I don’t know if they’re still together.
God, I hope not.
But I hate myself for hoping.
I wish I were like her. I wish I could stand so still the air forgets to move around me.
Not a flicker of emotion. Not a crack. Not even pity.
Meanwhile my head is screaming,
fuck off fuck off fuck off—
but all I do is smile.
Jun 23, 2025
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Does anyone else keep memory boxes?
These are old shoe boxes full of keep sakes which could be as silly as receipts from a holiday, letters from old friends, gig tickets, set lists from memorable shows, photos etc
I have quite a few of them now and am aware that if I keep on going like this, I’ll probably have an entire room full of boxes of these objects that possess a sentimental value. But will that be practical?
So I came up with an idea, an archival undertaking of sorts called ’Debris Of a Life’, where I whittle down my boxes to just one box to rule them all and with the keepsakes that don’t make the cut being scanned and documented via a zine. I’d imagine this could end up being a few volumes worth of material but there is something that has really caught my imagination with this style of scrapbooking being presented in my most favourite of all formats; the zine.
I will post more about this idea as it develops.
Apr 6, 2025
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Don’t you think that PI FYI is a bit like Wendy Cope’s poem The Orange if it was a social media platform? Everyone sharing and recommending the things that bring them meaning and joy in life. It’s so wholesome.
It’s been a minute but I have some time off this weekend so I will likely indulge some more of my thoughts and recs for the benefit of journaling.
Feb 22, 2025
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Not always complicity
Apr 12, 2025