how is it possible for time to move this slowly? from friday to friday, an eternity.
he who cut lego bricks into pieces as a child because they weren't fine grained enough
(lego bricks, he says, are explicitly zero-dimensional.)
if you don't ask me the questions, i might not give you the answers.
from grinning to weeping. it's always distance in the way.
my first girlfriend wrote me endless love letters on http://letterstocrushes.com/
— and i still treasure them —
we were fourteen; it was sweet.
after we broke up, we stopped talking, harbored hard feelings. one night from an ambiguous facebook post i got wind that she was dating someone new,
someone i had long admired,
and i confirmed it, i confirmed it for myself, by reading all the new love letters she had written.
songs that make me ask why i ever listen to anything else
kurt vile's "pretty pimpin"
brahms' geistliches lied, op. 30
owen pallett's "in conflict"
gaelynn lea's "someday we'll linger in the sun"
thoughts for the future
worksheets from readings
college class choice system
design a quilt
internet story 2
i linked to his blog on my website. my website was new and his blog was old and beloved.
i didn't think twice about it. in the meantime, i learned lots — like that analytics exist.
so when he put out a new post, i got curious. view source, i inquired, and of course there it was — a little google analytics tracker.
it made me smile. i suppose there are backlinks on the internet.
the next day we were talking, and he asked to make a confession.
he explained: he has google analytics on his blog, and every month or so, he checks in on the referring links—
he'd seen some traffic coming from an unfamiliar site, and he investigated.
he knew it was me. — there probably weren't *two* people with sestina prompters, he said —
— it was hanging heavy in his heart, like this was privacy compromised, although it was not. i reassured him.
so that is how my dearest friend stumbled upon my website.
a list of lists i had not written c. 2017, abridged
times i tried to believe in god
friends i lost
sentences in books i gasped at
things i will never say to you
things i should not say to you, but probably will
times i flinched during sex
places i wept
times i felt like i looked like myself
doors i walked through
dates i counted down to
secrets you shared with me
prayers i was too afraid to pray
today i learned that there is a picture of me in osculation on the internet
(it's on a stage, we were acting — although, months later, this counterpart from the play did confess feelings for me)
((it wasn't a surprise; it was unreciprocated.))
poems i mutter to myself
living under the digestive system
the shrinking lonesome sestina
the world is too much with us
you mustn't be afraid, god
homes, past and present
one day i will start emailing people who list an email here