When the Sopranos premiered, I was 20, not fist pumping in the dark media room of my large house in Greenwich. My gaze was deadlocked on this man of violence. I knew men of violence kinda secondhand kinda not. 

Genetics is weird. When my sister sees things she hears music. When I hear music I see things. Like in seconds 26 to 34 in Lorde’s Team I see a decorated elephant walking in a desert landscape. The frame shakes as I’m laying underneath it. 

My sister should have been a composer. When I walk down the street now I try to hear music in the buses screeching. Everything I’ve ever seen and heard creates every origin in me and every origin in me is a little torch so that there are a trillion little torches animating my 4th dimensional motion. 

I like eating with a certain friend. Since we were kids, really. Though, she was probably never really a kid. She was quiet and made no excuses for the food nor any grand presentation. It just was what it was. Her dark hair and eyes averted their gaze not demurely but self contained like. I’ve eaten and relished every single last drop of food she’s ever offered me. I felt like I’d come home to sit around her table.

I was sitting in my yard last week after a run listening to the rainforest decibel bird songs and calls. An intruder arrived. A big black cawing bird, unpleasant to the ears and ominous in his flight. The tiny little bluebirds with a nest in the front tree chased him out of the yard. Those bluebirds were so pissed. 


I write abecedarian sequences

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