a few poems, a few thoughts, and a few signs of life

hello old friend, hey there stranger, heidy ho neighbor, howdy partner

i don’t know how it’s been almost 6 months since my last update on here. i had the intention of posting more regular updates but TBH they would all read about the same, at least in terms of my writing career, which is the thing that led most of you to follow me or care about my voice in the first place. i have basically only been doing ~professional~ writing when i am asked: a few bandcamp reviews here and there, a few bios, not much else. when i see other writers they ask me what i am working on and i do not have much to report back. but it is also a nice feeling because when i ask other writers the same question, the answer is riddled with stress and uncertainty, even when said other writers are working on objectively cool things. i was in that place for many years where the conditions of freelancing made it so impossible to relish and cherish any of my accomplishments. people would say “wow it’s so cool you write for pitchfork” and for some reason it never felt that cool. i guess because constantly being broke, begging people on the internet for money, chasing down checks, offering up your heart and soul on a plate is kinda the antithesis of cool. but for pretty much the first time in my adult life i have some semblance of stability and security even if i am not paid very much for breaking my back and busting my ass all day. at the very least being a real blue collar bitch now makes country songs hit a lot harder than they ever did before.

i know that a lot of folks, including those reading this, would like to see me get back on the horse with my published writing, and eventually i would like that too. i have this fear that a lot of people will no longer want to work with me for being a crazy bitch or w/e but i am realizing a lot of that fear is in my own head. the work has always spoken for itself. but TBH being in the rhythm of pitching is so exhausting and draining and not really what i want to be doing right now, even if am constantly worried about becoming completely irrelevant and dropping totally off the map. but i think sometimes pressuring myself to write is about proving myself to people who were never going to give me their respect in the first place. so when i feel the need to Do Something lately i have been asking myself: is this for me, or for someone else? not that doing things for others is always a bad thing. but publishing just for the sake of having something to show is not a very fruitful place to create from. in addition to my newfound stability — or at least the stability that can be found in a dependable biweekly paycheck — i am also relishing not being required to have opinions for the first time in my adult life. an early sign that i wanted to be an Artist more than just a Critic is that anytime i would be around other people, i would invariably be asked for my opinion on whatever the latest discourse object was. even if i had not engaged with the thing, it was always assumed that i would have engaged, that i could generate takes on demand, that i would be ready and willing to rip anything and everything to shreds. and TBH, that was never really my bag. i always resented that perception of myself. contrary to whatever the public perception of critics might be, i never enjoyed taking things to task. i never enjoyed writing negative reviews even if i was sometimes good at them. i wanted to sing praise, to uplift, to shine a light, and that is how i try to conduct myself in my personal interactions these days too.

if you don’t already know, i have been working as a cheesemonger for almost a year now and it has really changed everything for me. a lot of the reason why i pursued Freelance Writing as a profession to begin with was because i wanted to have a voice but not be perceived, which is a little bit of a contradiction. even if a voice is not tied to a physical form, it is still an extension of the self. pretty much everything i did was to erase myself and avoid person-to-person interaction, which was extremely unhealthy. my reclusive ways only hurt me and others around me. life forced my hand a little bit, but in being truly forced to get outside of several comfort zones by doing a job in which i am constantly surrounded and interfacing with a broad array of individuals, i’ve really learned firsthand not just how good i am at talking to people, but how much i enjoy talking to people. i love being a little bright spot in someone’s day. i love seeing that light in their eyes when i introduce them to a new piece of cheese that completely explodes their palette. i love being the friend who always brings fancy cheese to a party. and i love the instant rizz boost that has come from doing a job that makes you appreciate subtle yet complex flavors that many people don’t always appreciate. when you tell people at parties in new york city that you are a writer it becomes this game of proving yourself. and then often times there is this feeling that they want something from you, that they only want to know you because of your bylines. maybe now there are people who want to befriend me for the access and insight i provide into fromage but i think it’s mostly that i am an interesting person and this niche little industry that many people don’t know the intricacies of makes me a little more interesting. and cheese has also taught me some very real lessons about life: that there is so much more to all of us when you look beyond surface appearance or smell, and that there is always value in thrown-out scraps and old mold and used rinds. i am sure at some point i will write more about cheese in detail, but i would like to think that really exploring flavors and letting life rest in my mouth like i do with cheese feeds back into my creative process, especially as i explore more sensory-driven forms of writing like poetry.

my thing these days is just really embracing corny cliches in all their glory and living life as fully as i can. i think i am doing a pretty good job of those things. needless to say, i am in a tremendously different place than i was a year ago, but i think i am in a different and more positive place than i was even before that. while i might have had some semblance of Success, i was riddled with social anxiety and self-loathing. now i am learning to really love myself, which has allowed me to love other people in deeper and realer ways. and yeah, i don’t have much to show for myself these days, beyond the life i lead, and the tangible relationships i cultivate with real people. i think that is more than enough.

i took down most of the writing i did on substack last year, including The Piece. even a few things that i wrote after shedding most of the manic delusions are pretty embarrassing to me now. at some point when those memories are less real and raw and lowkey triggering for me, i might revisit some of those selections and republish them. and if anyone ever wants to read any of them again you can just reach out and ask me. i’ve had this idea to put together a little zine of some of my manic writing with added footnotes and director’s commentary. but i also think it’s just healthy to leave a lot of that shit behind and focus on the present and future. life is so much more beautiful when you stop focusing on what you have lost, and start focusing on what is there right now in your immediate reality. i think a lot about this quote from nipsey hussle: “anything i lost i wasn’t supposed to have, and anyone i lost wasn’t supposed to be there.” all that to say: if you are still there, you’re supposed to be there, and i’m supposed to be here too. and i truly hope that you enjoy being here as much as i do these days.

anyway, i do still actually have some written work to show for myself. i am really getting into my poetry and the prosody of it all and there is something very fulfilling about really sitting with the rhythm of a line and tweaking it over time. i really don’t know anything at all about the poetry world, even though i know some folks who have published poetry, so i could honestly really use advice and guidance. if you see any open calls for poetry submissions, please let me know. i would like to get my work out there in a form that is not just my substack or instagram stories. i also hope to do readings and give a real voice to my words because that is how they are meant to be received. i am hoping to put together a reading of my own in the fall instead of just sitting around and waiting for somebody to ask me to be a part of their reading. but if you want to ask me to be a part of your reading i would love that too. anyway, i did submit a few of these poems to a publication for consideration, and if they are published i will probably take them down from here. i am not sure how “Done” any of these are but i am happy with them. i hope you can take something away from the words in my poems, and from my words here too.

i love all of you very much. that’s really what it comes down to. thanks for fucking with me. if there are any typos in the previous paragraphs it is because i am writing this down freestyle mode before i have to leave for work.

Tranny On The Moon

I was the first tranny on the moon.
Did you know they put a tranny on the moon?
They said it would be one giant leap for representation,
but in reality, they just wanted to send me 
somewhere screams are neither heard nor seen.

No padded room is as soundproof as an airlock with no key,
no insane asylum as effective as your own personal Death Star,
left alone with no ground control to guide you home to Kolob,
and no vocal chords with which to transmit signals of celestial distress.

Laika was the very first bitch shot into space, but certainly not the last: 
The Milky Way lactated from all the angels banished out here,
far beyond the final glimpses of the stratosphere’s reflective tint,
this uncharted region of darkened ether
where constellations lose what remains of their faintly fleeting glimmer
and Orion’s arrows dare not reach.

I injected dark matter and midi-chlorians
once my stash of hormones ran its course,
and I hoarded all the freeze-dried ice cream sandwiches
until the only food left was my gelatin bones
and vacuum-sealed sous vide soul,
just a lonely anchovy stuffed within a tin coffin,
the remains of my waking life smeared against the 
bleary-eyed confines of a cryogenically-preserved isolation chamber.

I’ve lost track of how many wormholes closed behind me,
I forgot the stardate years ago, 
but every now and then,
I catch the passing halcyon shadow of Icarus cast across the cockpit window,
pushing back against the lack of gravity,
and I remember just how easily I could take one small step
into the most endless and untethered of graves.

Confessions, Part II (Remix)

All of my favorite artists are dead,
and I am the one who killed them.

I have held their screams in my head,
washed my hands in their blood
worn their skin and adorned their crimson masks,
drawn and quartered their cited sources
in a Galahad quest for my own 
apocryphal understanding of reality,
interpreting autofictional confessions 
as gospel truth whenever metaphor
was in short supply.

I speak the words they are condemned 
to remember and repeat, 
traumas recreated on a nightly basis
for someone else’s benefit,
idolatries exchanged on the razor’s edge.
Translated into a dozen tongues,
now available in paperback:
Your mass-market life
on the discount rack of oblivion.

My cover band only specializes in 
funeral dirges and cries for help,
stabbing myself in the chest
as a tribute act to Elliott Smith,
an Auto-Tuned noose at the ready 
on the off-chance someone requests 
“She’s Lost Control.”
Indulgences available at the merch table,
Independent balling like a martyr.

Trigger the pitched-up bit-crushed sample of a 
sawed-off shotgun blast on the MIDI pad,
the needle scratch of a bone crack,
the banshee wail of mania bubble-wrapped,
the perpetual air-raid siren of tinnitus.

Every note inscribed on my thigh,
every lie copyrighted,
every savior assassinated,
every muse made mortal,
every idol expendable,
every album posthumously cobbled as corporate golem,
every corpse dressed for a party it cannot attend.

I hope they hire you to ghostwrite my memoirs,
because you were there
when I crucified my Lord.

listening to jimmy buffett while overlooking the hudson

There is no class division or caste system upon the ocean:
cruise ships and cargo barges 
traverse the same waves
and both may sink like a stone
without a moment’s notice.

What a miracle it is merely to float!
Standing on an unstable and soluble surface,
no ground below and
no goal but to keep your
head above water.

Twinkle of oil derricks in the distance,
sun slithering into sepia,
before one last gasp
and then 
down you go.

this one doesn't have a name yet

in the library of my nightmares
every book is written
by someone
who hates me

i borrow them anyway
carefully cracking
each spine in two 
to exact my revenge