A poet wrestles with grief and the multiverse.
My future was uncertain . . . A balloon dinosaur was tangible, even if it withered away in a week.
Each performance provided a hit of adrenal love. I lived on it. I survived off of it. Until, that is, that moment in the bathroom when I was thirteen.
There’s a lot to be outraged about. But when my anger is visited on people close to me, something needs to change.
To call these acts wild, to see them as separate parts of consciousness, is to be a tourist in your own city.
On chasing ecstasy, finding tenderness, creating art, and experiencing motherhood.
“Who was this self-appointed vigilante of this street of ours? Why was he so invalid? No one seemed to have a story about him.”
“You tell the real estate guy it’ll be your weekend place. You tell yourself you’re going to get a lot of writing done here.”