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Matthew Dickman received the second fan letter I’ve ever written. The first was written in 1989, when I was ten years old, and it was addressed to Howard Johnson, an infielder for the New York Mets.

The world, while God-created (parent), God redeemed (child), and God haunted/inspired (Holy Spirit), is certainly not God oriented: it is motley, hidden away from God behind a thousand conflicting tropes of willfulness and streben.

They dream they are dreaming, and in that dream they never have to wake again.

The Disappearing Suite


For 9 consecutive nights I prepared my crystal-infused water dream therapy. Each morning I would implement the final stage of the dream therapy, then I would listen to a different PRINCE album in its entirety.

A sort of mystical reticence which, to tin ears, seems non-existent, but is the gobbled and cobbled and ruined talk of the American male.

My poems have roommates, and until two weeks ago, slept on a loft bed they bought in 2006 while still a paralegal.

eclipsing binary

The Way She Carried

Idiots wait on both sides of the fence.

Clouds Afternoon Jazz Sprinkles


Simone Weil’s “hell” sounds like my concept of conformity: hell is an illusion of being--appearance, semiotics, that which conforms to a construct but without true obedience.

I am roughly five months along, as I am writing this.

The Astronomer