missed connection; 4th avenue


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I conceal myself behind simple things so you’ll find me; if you don’t find me, you’ll find the words, you’ll feel what my hand has felt, our hand-prints will become one. The February moon glitters in the kitchen like a steel-coated pot, (it grows that way because of what I’m saying to you), it illuminates the empty house and the house’s passing silence–always the silence remains passing. Every word is a gateway to a meeting, one often abandoned, and that’s when you’ll know that a word is true: when it persists on the meeting.

a shipwreck of words


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I have tried to read the world—


A fragment takes a shape, caught in the throat:
distance we have set ourselves against.


All drifts away and collapses: the echo of the verse.


Yet this vocabulary has no use – I knew that.


To try and meet you in these lines.
The trace and not the marker.


Ce n’est pas un poème.
This is not a poem.


Thread for the interpretation of twenty-six letters.


I am in an argument with myself—
I cannot speak of I.


Elsewhere, the poems are writing,
and they are writing about us.

listening in 2013


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I know – yet another Top 10 album list for 2013 isn’t really necessary, but I always like an excuse to share musical loves. So in no particular order:

The National trouble will find me;
Fall Out Boy save rock and roll;
Arctic Monkeys am;
The Strokes comedown machine;
Baths obsidian;
Kilo Kish k+;
Phoenix bankrupt!;
Lorde pure heroine;
Deafheaven sunbather;
Daft Punk random access memories

What did you have on repeat in 2013?

keep the lights on


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Ira Sachs’ Keep the Lights On is not an excessively brilliant film; however, it is one that leaves a solid impression. In beaucoup ways it feels like a filmic portraiture (of the lucidity) of Nan Goldin’s still narrative photography. In this rationality, the film engages with similar subjects to her work – love, sex, addiction, pathos – while also possessing the plucky patina and New York sensibility that traces Goldin’s photographs. What makes both so strong and so convincing is their flaws, their presentation of awkward and unrefined intimacy.

This is similarly what makes the film heartbreaking to see. I realised when watching Keep the Lights On how emotionally attached I am in happy endings and how much I am willing to forgive offenses and wrongdoings. The film laid upon me with what is essentially an unattainable relationship, and yet I yearned for it to succeed despite these contrasts, these diversities.

The story (film) was apparently based on one of Sachs’ romantic relationships and the sincerity of its onscreen portrayal is rough in its representation of the lengths to which we will go for the person we love and we long for. Indeed, Zachary Booth, one of the lead actors, beautifully described the disposition of this film when he mentioned, “This movie is accessible to anyone who is loved, wanted to love or ever had a relationship.”

dear ex-lover,


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I hold my breath
thinking of you every night

the front door swings open
and closes at my touch,
praying that somehow
you sleep through the shrieks

its metal core
makes as it scrapes
against the concrete floor;
each turn shrilling
of its rust

how these noises
juxtapose the morning’s:
your giggles against
the sunlight passing
through the skylines

as I open the glass door
on the way to work
again, I carry your voices
with me and run them
in my head

as I watch Christopher Columbus
move by outside the window
because 9-6 shift
is the slowest, I’m alone
for the most part

drinking coke, taking
too many smoke breaks
and all the chairs are mine
to take–I miss you
all along.

fiat lux


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I dreamt of you again and
you had become a Language.
Light that leaves. Light that
returns. I woke robbed again.

I miss you like a motherland for
which there is no desire of return.
A space scorched unimaginably.
I miss you in a million little moments,

unreprised, like the light
that leaves and the light that
visits. I miss you like the ghost.
I hold my hands into the ocean,

in a quest for you, even as
I watch your body in flames, drift away. I wish I could come back
to you as one returns to a home.

But there is no “you” to return to,
no space of familiarity. Only
the voices of absence in the
heavy draw of morning light.

And the promise of a thousand morning-lights to come, knowing I
must wander all alone. In my
sleep you blamed me for never

having loved. But you do
not know the weight of my
baggage. The way an orange
leaf can make me cry.

How all these seconds sound
without you. Every season is
too cold. Every light too hazy. Perhaps I have never really

loved and it’s just the concavity
of this world, the emptiness of
desiring itself, which inspires such
fits of despair and solitude.

The exodus of words even
on the cusp of the end, the
lust for an end — the light
that leaves and wanders.

traces of autumn’s mysticism


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The pumpkin grows to be eviscerated
of its insides–we make an armor
out of life and then we give it a name,
sculpting into it some stationary effect so its emptiness may radiate from the inside out. It is in this moment that I am alive and burning, burning bright; as I am slowly ebbing, only to collapse into myself.

salutations from the plateau


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20131104-015731.jpgI fell asleep in a thought asylum;
My dreams have been spinning
for years.
I woke up enchained to the walls
Of something–
By some nonspecific gravity–
And I cannot conclude
Whether or not it does even exist,
Or if I’m just motion sick–

In lieu of the exponential
interruption I’ll never catch,
I catch my breath in glimpses elsewhere.
As I fake distraction from eyes that collide,
The air from my lungs;
I am suffocating;
I am standing still.

And so the motions feel so thrilling
I have become so structured,
each fiber calculated.
The hands of time
Are now coexisting with mine;
That if I could utter
My promises in
Numerical fragments,
Then my words, too,
Would tick & tock.

ghosts, of the echo


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I shoved the ten
in my cardigan pocket
to smoke later

all my bills are resting
at the bottom
of my miumiu
in my purse, opened

like my lips after the first
time i let love depart
my mouth, from beneath
the sheets, naked

and i took the ten
out my pocket
still packed in cellophane,

they’re something
for me to open up, pull
apart and light and breathe
in as if they give me

this fucking life
because at time they
give me something left
to do despite how thin

the rolling paper gets
it’s always thick enough
for me to blur my mouth
with smoke

in lieu of everything
said, there’s a shared
oblivion, a full-flavored
amalgam thickness

in the air as we let
the smoke spread slow
from our mouths
and linger itself

around what bent light
it can clasp then alter
coming off like the ghosts
it will one day make of us

and of anything
heavy like the letters and
punctuations that sound
so weightless when I hear
myself utter them aloud,

and even when my voice
shivers out my hollow mouth
it’s a reckless kind
of trembling that leaves

my tongue feeling gentle,
feeling lighter after saying
the exact words i’ve tried
out in time, in reality

because it got easier
to spell it, so much harder
to cling on to, as if only
in presence of love

and its reciprocation
do i remember its sense
i know love through existing
without it, love is hysteria,

is wasting sleep together
on purpose, knowing we both
carry our feelings below our
eyes, underneath their lids—

my memories are frozen
in the blood brain barricade
on my skull’s undersurface
and i keep them there

for the stories I want
to have ready for you;
i leave them in the corners
of my mouth. I practice

the way they feel when
said by mouthing them
to the empty walls while you


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