I wrestle daily with whether my writing is good or shit. Most of the time, I write into a quiet vacuum, unsure if it matters at all. Yet the act itself—struggling, digging, pinning down fleeting thoughts—feels alive. It’s writing for me, for discovery, for sentences that exist anyway.
Anticipatory Disappearance |
On Survival and the Refusal to Grow Old
I’ve lived most of my adult life with the sense that I won’t grow old. At least not in the average sense we’re led to expect. Chronic illness taught me early that bodies fail quietly and often without warning. This isn’t an essay about dying. It’s about surviving, mistrusting the future, and refusing to lie about it.
Survivor’s Guilt Trip |
Ungratitude & Stolen Valor
About 4 years ago, I survived two strokes. But I’m fine—on the outside. Sometimes this survival feels like a burden, a quiet accusation whispered over years, trauma tinnitus. This poem explores what it’s like to live after trauma that leaves no marks, my resistance to gratitude, and the ungrieved self I lost along the way.
Six Strings, Borrowed Air |
Where Sound Becomes Movement
Six strings, borrowed air, and a body that remembers before the mind does. This poem explores how sound turns into movement, how resistance generates music, and how meaning is experienced—quietly, physically, and beyond language or technique.
The Great Blueberry Ballgame |
On Baseball, Blueberries, and Making Do
I don’t remember when I first heard this story—only that by the time I was old enough to question it, it already felt true. A small town, a baseball game, and a solution so wrong it worked.
The Cat—Who Was and Wasn’t—In the Hat |
Or: Why Can't Reality Just Behave Already?
Quantum physics is strange, slippery, and famously unintuitive. I wondered how Dr. Seuss would explain it. Let’s explore particles, waves, and Schrödinger’s cat through memorable rhyme and playful whimsy, so see if we can explain why reality refuses to behave itself.
Designed Obsolescence |
On Being Briefly Unique in an Ambivalent World
I came into being suddenly, sharp and overbuilt for a life so short. Tossed by wind and erased by warmth, I fell toward a little girl’s nose. In that instant, I existed fully—and then I was gone. No legacy, no monument, just the undeniable reality of being briefly real.
Non-Personhood |
Memories of a Child Raised in a Blind Spot
I was an invisible child, shaped by abuse and neglect. I learned to disappear, to protect my sisters, and to survive a household that couldn’t give me what I needed. This is my story of anger, memory, and reclaiming the self I was taught not to have.
My Humanism: Making Sense Out of Nonsense |
From Catholicism to Good Without God
I was raised Catholic, lost my faith early, and spent decades without a name for my disbelief. Humanism didn’t convert me—it clarified me. This is what humanism means to me, and why it offers a grounded, humane framework for living without the need for divine permission.
The Utterly Unforgivable Uselessness of Gas Leaf Blowers |
A Love Letter to Their Extinction
I’m done suffering through gas leaf blowers—those noisy, polluting, two-stroke nightmares that turn my neighborhood into a shrieking wasteland while barely moving a leaf. Working from home means enduring their chaos constantly, and I’ve had enough. This is my call for their extinction and the return of blessed, unbroken quiet.