If I was a dog, I wouldn't be responsible for my own life.
Neither a drop of white wine into the danube canal, nor a gunshot through the roof of my mouth, but something in between
On the lawn, sprinklers bend the light with no greater purpose
It’s got good bones, everyone kept telling us. Who knows.
448.
The East German dramaturge Heiner Müller adopted Brecht’s notion of Kopien (German for ‘copying’ or ‘sampling’), the practice of regarding texts by others as material to be used, imitated,
I see them right there plain as day, two-dimensional prints, sacred geometry, my life is full of meaning.
Her umbilical right to intimacy makes me wonder if I ever left the womb.
no one can reach me you stopped drinking mined former awe
I was convinced I would die. A lone cig, maybe three gin spritzes, benzodiazepining into extinction. Ativan.
As weird and wild and beautiful and filthy as Venice Beach itself, Jessamyn Violet's new novel, Venice Peach, has everything I want in books about Los Angeles: Beautiful imagery, characters that are
I am more deserving of your love than he is. My heart beats twice the size of others.
“When we were young, we had momentum. We were winning. We were best friends. Everybody seemed to care more. Everything seemed to matter more back then.”
~ Hot Tub Time Machine (2010)
On
The pain reminds me: I am here. I am real. I matter.
I put away my matchsticks / and hammer. You remain, standing / the same as you were.
when I laugh, you perk up
like a misted lily
there’s always something new to say
It is only for an hour or two that I get to panic about pregnancy before the blood starts.
behold a God's eye in storm where tapping rings / finish me.
Michelle understood my frustration. She diagnosed Peter with “terminal vagueness” and agreed it wasn’t my job to financially support him.
Hoarding is bad and it’s equally bad when all that indie music doesn’t hit the spot anymore
I like crazy. I like the monomaniacal Captain Ahab, the deranged Humbert Humbert, the murderous Raskolnikov, the obsessed Heathcliff, the serial killers Patrick Bateman and Tom Ripley, the psychopath
Lies are told beneath silvery moons
And far beyond sad boys and girls falling in love.
I wake up the next morning with the sensation that my lips weigh ten pounds and are about to drop off my face. I’m too scared to look in the mirror,
Did I want to fuck her? Or did I want to be her?
It’s the question everyone asks but I’ve never felt it until now.
Before the internet had all the answers,
before Siri, before Alexa,
before TikTok teens with ring lights
explained the universe in under thirty seconds—
I had my dad.
Dad was my Wikipedia.
Dad
They said it was a record-breaking storm. I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to find a clean bowl and wondering if the radiator was supposed to make that noise. I didn’t think anyone would be out
In those days, it was popular to ask, What would Jesus do? I crucified myself for days.
Look longingly
out the window. Wait for myself to come home.
