Blogs

This is me. This is where I am. I sit on a curb at 4th and Driggs, cracked concrete beneath my boots, the crisscross of chain link tattooing my back. I squint at my laptop beneath midday sun. In the road yellow cabs yowl, across the street a warehouse siding graffiti art exhibit, down the block a hipster girl hocks vintage paisley print applique skirts hanging on chain link. A lurch in my gut. I squint. I fold my laptop.

We are privileged.

We choose our food, we sleep well enough, we argue over our affections for celebrities.

We have no set identity here—this is not aimed at any one specific nation, individual, corporation, lifestyle, couple, readers/ship. But you are reading this. And you can click away to any barely conceivable image, article, or instruction manual from here.

comes slowly.

Today's haul at the recycling machine = $21.20.

Once when I was an intern at a small poetry press, I attended a Grantmakers Forum in Port Hadlock, Washington. Nonprofit group representatives who had appealed to the Jefferson County Community Foundation could observe the debate which would ultimately result in a $1,000 grant.

At the first coffee break, a man smiled as we both reached for green grapes, accidentally bumping knuckles. He read my name tag. The poetry press was printed in bolder type than my name.

laborious