Monthly Archives: May 2014


Digging through some old files, I found a poem that I several years ago. It remains one of the few poems that I had a genuinely fun time writing and though I think it needs heavy revisions, I present it here in it’s original form. Because, honestly, having fun while writing is just as important and writing something “good.”


In my dream Conor Oberst invites me to Cassadega.

But, of course, cities

in dreams are never just one place.

Dream Cassadega is almost my own

city, the one I lost slowly in treads

of shoes and the ice left at

the bottom of Italian sodas and

the faces of people I couldn’t see. Now

State Street suddenly

leads into the ocean and the ocean

is filled with glass sailboats

breaking on the waves.


At my favorite café, the stereo plays

TV on the Radio through tin

can speakers and jelly glasses pressed

to walls. I order a cup

of Iron Silk Puerh which comes

in the Holy Grail I never thought

I would attain. It stains

my hands a glorious white that stuns

the wolf I used to fear who

shows up wearing a suit of night

sky materials and nods to me.


Meric Long is at a corner table

telling stories to everything

that has ever gone extinct.

He motions me

to sit but I don’t believe I’m gone

enough quite yet. So instead a

dead woman reads my future

backwards starting with my past.

She says I’ve only lost just



A Bird flies around the ceiling,

whistling about the way the sky

looked last night. I think I

need a net. The sky last night

bled. The sky last night tasted

sickly sweet. The sky last night felt

like skin burnt with fever. The

sky last night looked like

the face of everyone I’ve loved.


Outside it starts to rain. Susheela

tells me it tastes of salt.

I think the ocean

became the sky. I think I

missed the train I meant to catch

before the world ends and now

I might just drown.


There’s a Corvair parked on

the street outside, the color of bone.

I think if I touched it I could

feel every road it has ever

known. Jim White says don’t,

it’s almost not here

anymore. That’s almost the way

someone I loved once described me.


The street outside disintegrates.

It’s impolite to say, though. And so,

as the dust creeps under the door,

and the wolf begins to howl,

and all the dead shift

ever so slightly beneath our feet,

and the sky hollows out a space

for me, all Conor says is: Don’t worry—


—It’s the first day of my life

until my eyes open

to the empty apartment

and the walls that I always

wanted to paint are still

white, and everything

is a buzz of silence.

So I hit

repeat. Repeat.

Repeat until there’s nothing else.






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