Plan your dreams in advance.
A mash up of the NYC quarantine + the series finale of Homeland.
A dark meditation in a safe place.
This one was borne out of Peaky Blinders and the amazing time in history when horses outnumbered cars in cities and towns.
For my mother and brother.
After seeing old friends.
I’ve been hanging onto this wily one for months.
Started with “sparkle”.
An abecedarian sequence is, ideally, a 26-word poem, each word in alphabetical order. This one born out of “a burnt corpse” (A-B-C)
Born out of “anything boiling”
This one borne out of a fear of death.
Born around the words “a bully crowd” and Hillbilly Elegy.
This one is about a boy.
Born from the word “burden.”
Borne from “death”.
Born from the experience of adolescence.
For my son.
For Christine P.
My late husband took this photograph in Oaxaca in 2006. I marked it up.
My favorite topic.
Washington, D.C. in 2017.
I’m leaving DC after 20 years.
The seam between life and death is peculiar. I’m transfixed by it lately.
My favorite abecedarian. It has lots of cheats.
Life doesn’t break, it bends.
The edge of a hole is a dreadful angle.
Route 50 after Bud died.
A night out with old friends.
Life is messy but still worth it.
This church door in Georgetown.
I get motion sickness.
I think you’ll get it.
Vitality not happiness is the opposite of depression.
Sometimes, I “fill in the blanks darkly.”
An abecedarian centered around “cull.”
There goes sleep: I’ll take that train.
Sometimes I see colors.
Seeing red wings sprout
Limbs strewn like branches from a tree after a storm.
A fresh death.
One of my favorites.
Inspired by AB.
A micro story.
Skipper counts as a Barbie.
Enough said. I remain enamored of the word commensal, but rats are synanthropes. They are kleptoparasites. They are pests. They are vectors and direct zoonotic carriers.
Do metrics matter?
A post about musophobia, from which I have, since, recovered.
In retrospect, we spoiled her.
I’m happy to say the nights haven’t felt too large in a long long time.
It’s ok to need love.
Let me see . . .
Beginning of some fiction.
To my son.
What turned out to be a premonition.
Starting some fiction.
Part one of some fiction.