I have never been successful with completing a "thirty day writing challenge," (attempted before on this blog in 2021 and 2023), but even if left uncompleted, the challenges — and the several subpar poems they produce as I get back into writing, again — are successful enough in resetting things that I usually do end… Continue reading 1: poem: catching up
Tag: david foster wallace
brief review of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men
My through-line "theme" to make sense of David Foster Wallace is sincerity vs. form - or perhaps, sincerity AND form, given the sense of the push-pull relationship between the two. Upon finishing Brief Interviews, have read the majority of his essay on television, and I think it is one of the key essays to making… Continue reading brief review of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men
poem: hauntology
all of a sudden, it is too much muchness. my teenage selfwould have eaten this up: he's drunk, or he's telling her - you'll makeme start drinking again. dream blip, girl with M names thelast Paris poem, the first time we go to Paris is October and we will(respectfully) fuck. we will watch the swans… Continue reading poem: hauntology
poem: monologue
on the park bench she has nothing of sacred otherness, ripping her face offthere is just, mine. cigarette draw - like i do in dreams - saying, hmmmfifteen pages into gravity’s rainbow i had to reddit thread tounderstand a monster on the page, i can’t stand that sort of referencial minutia; if theText cant hold… Continue reading poem: monologue
poem: the ick after “big red son”
in faraway -- two-and-half-highway drive, the Californiaheat de-panels into California porn, sitting in summer lightlace tanktop and gold Cross/Saint medallion, I am kept --meeting the underworld only through the clay feet ofonce glamorous men, now revealed to be down in the moral yuck, he says the sexualization of real life versus actual real life, I… Continue reading poem: the ick after “big red son”
poem: he likely would have found me by chance and declared me a talented writer
her farce was weirdly unenviable; she said -- this man, he would find little savior/fellow strugglerfellow bearer of what is what isand then (camera wink) isnt it so ironic to askwhat is, when we are standing here, and weknow. he would find this inme. i write my manifesto, i slug along to meetings with nothing… Continue reading poem: he likely would have found me by chance and declared me a talented writer
the last pavilion 