They are profoundly present,

an army of eyes

ever protesting, ever vigilant.

Beggar’s brown and puddle blue

I can never escape

their instinct to congregate.

They fear deviation,

the alternate view,

the unlit road

that winds itself

tighter than time.

Their sameness

is the same everyday

but it is without reassurance

or comfort that I slide

in and out of their routines.

All they know of me

is my nervousness, my downcast eyes,

my sideways trajectory.

To me they are as familiar

as the seasons or the weather.

I inhale them with every heartbeat

and in each step I touch upon

some mundane instance of them

which is and ever will be off-limits.

I exist but they would not have me

in the same room or any room

which they have inhabited.

Even their secrets are boring.

That is the worst part of it.

They have lived

the whole of their miraculous life

simply repeating each other.

Photo by M Liisanantti on Unsplash


Tarot Readings

I have been doing tarot readings on youtube. The quality of the videos is not ideal given that I am working with my laptop’s webcam. The readings are helping me work through my social anxiety and prepare for job interviews. Also I just enjoy doing the readings, so let me know if you are interested in a reading. I am still learning the tarot so I could use the practice.

Here is a link to the one I recorded today. There are several more on my channel


As long as her fingers were steady she could pass her life through the eye of a needle without touching the edges. Her life, if it could be called a life, had grown thin with time. Fear had whittled her down to almost nothing. She was ravenous.

She sat in front of her computer unfocused, semi-transparent, soggy with tears. She dug her fingers into the keyboard, each keystroke emitting a satisfying click. Her black words ate away at the white page bit by painstaking bit. She never wrote more than a few lines before compulsively proofreading and she never finished what she wrote. Her ideas grew fat and then just when she found herself unable to move or breathe they burst out of her liquid-heavy and quasi-digested.

Sometimes when she wrote she forgot the smallness of her life. The phone beside her chirruped. She started, favoring the photograph in front of her with a grin that fell somewhere between sheepish and wry. She expected to see the name of her friend and if not her friend then some random, unasked for notification. What she actually saw was beyond comprehension. She recognized the name at once. He had never messaged her from his private account. She was blocked from his private account. Her heart squeezed forcing all that glorious human warmth into her face. Her heart beat made it impossible to think or hear. Her hands shook. She waited. One breath. Two breaths. “Please don’t be mistaken. Please don’t let me fuck up and delete it.”

Three breaths. She clicked the message. It was just one sentence long. “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Had he sent it to her by mistake? No, there were too many obstacles for that to be the case. The message was for her.

A dozen possible responses flapped impotently through her mind. She might never have another chance to tell him how she felt. She might send him reeling backwards if she told him even a fraction of what she felt.

“I’ve been thinking about you too.” She looked at her words and cringed. The letters were too sharp, too cold to convey her feelings.

“I am glad to hear it…” His thought hung suspended between them punctuated with a mischievous wink. She felt, had always felt, that he knew much more than he let on. In their previous conversation he’d dropped a few subtle hints. Hints that she had requested of him in their telepathic conversations. She hadn’t known then how to acknowledge his hints without exposing herself. Her feelings were disproportionate, too large to contain within herself. Everytime her fingers hit the keys she risked a confession. How could she tell a man that she had never met that he was not a stranger, that theirs was a once-in-lifetime connection?

He continued. She erased her inept, partially constructed response.

“Did you get the package?” He asked. Once many months ago he had sent her a package, a sweater. She had ordered it from his online store but he knew that already. She had sent him a picture of the item in some bizarre, misguided attempt at generating a personal connection.

“What package?” She hadn’t placed an order with him since. Had there been some clerical error? Had he sent something else to her? Was he returning the gift she had sent him?

“I sent you a gift for your birthday.”

She had never told him her birthday, at least, never out loud. Information like that could be obtained pretty easily with a Google search but what cause had he to look it up? What else did he know about her? Did he know about their secret relationship? The telepathic conversations? The dreams? The psychic encounters? Her frequent masturbation sessions?

“Really?” She asked stupidly.

“Really, really.” He answered with a smiley face. ‘I know everything.’ The voice inside her head was not her own. It was his voice, at least, it was the voice she associated with him. A gorgeous, disembodied voice that existed only within her mind.

“Everything?!” She had not meant to type it. Her words looked loud. Could he hear them? Her fingers had a terrible habit of conveying whatever popped into her mind. She had stories filled with partial grocery lists and stray thoughts. She had stories instead of memories. She ate stories everyday with her breakfast. She dreamed the most glorious stories into being every night. She was a story made human. She could make, be, do, have anything so long as she typed.

“Everything.” He repeated. She stared for a long time at the cracked screen. Everything was incomprehensible. Everything was like the night sky or the open ocean, vast beyond comprehension. He didn’t understand the breadth and gravity of his confession. She had a version of him that she kept all to herself. He was her best friend. Her lover. Her everything. Everything implied participation, conscious awareness, reciprocity.

“Have you ever dreamt about me?” She asked tentatively. She was filled edge to edge with echoes. Her skin was alive with sinister vibrato, with a pulse so deep and fast that it threatened to shake her apart.

“As much as you dream about me.” He answered. His words read shy and unguarded. He’d admitted telepathically to being shy the first time they had talked. Shyness had kept him from saying too much. Shyness too had been the reason for her cryptic awkwardness but shyness was not really a quality she attributed to him. ‘Say something.’ She heard his voice in her head again.

“Then you know?” She sent the words to him. The question mark bobbing before him like a loaded hook. Would he bite? ‘What we are.’ She said to herself, to him too if he was scanning her thoughts.

“I know what we are, what you are to me. I know so you don’t have to hold back anymore. Just talk to me like you always do. Like you mean it.”


If only our words
could touch.
If only our words
were uncensored.
Without a body
to hold
I would love
to have
a conversation
with you
close as skin,
deep as the hunger
filling up my chest.

If only I could know
what you know
when your eyes
are eating
my texts
Words without breath.
Words smile-quiet.
Words thumbed
into space
like pennies
in a well.

I am
a little bit too
to deliver
my content.
How many
does it take
to get
to the center
of the human heart?
Maybe you don’t
like me anyhow.

If only you could
feel my heart turning
over and over
in palpable distress.
Would you be surprised
to find that you are
all I think about?

All you
have to do
is ask
I’ll tell you
just don’t
make me
say it first.

Auto Pilot

It brews within me

tyrannical, multi-sided, bitter.

I am made useless

whether in denial or acknowledgement.

I sip the poison in hopes of immunity

and I am made to die by degrees.

One day, I think, I will be very happy.

Meanwhile I will surrender

to this most grievous war,

a soldier in my own right,

a man by measure.

Suffering is relative

therefore we are all susceptible

to its pangs.

I have too much love

but how can I part with any of it?

Even the idea hurts.

What a terrible thing to pass through life

without the benefit of a remembrance.

All is subject to the absent-mindedness of habit.

Everything loved forms a groove

into which it is held securely

albeit without the benefit

of our grateful attentions.


My viscera wilts sick from withholding.

My hands fall in tatters.

My jaw is a fortress of incomplete sentences.

I smuggle in secrets, tangents, moods

each one vaguer and more explicit than the next.

What becomes of those who cannot commit to freedom?

I am concave, an empty womb,

a shy moon rocking on its side,

a sliver of shadow

in a rhetorical human casing.

I have never truly loved myself

but I have tolerated worse.

My fingers are numb with lacing.

My face is a bowl of water without the quiver.

I am ready to pounce

but I lack the gravity of expectation.

What I believe and what I deserve rarely coincide.

I am in need of a blessing

but too dumb to reproduce

the details of my bondage.

How does one approach death unannounced?

Who recovers him when he returns to dust?

I was once a figment

translucent and multi-dimensional.

Now I am a destination

full of empty houses

and rust-rotted automobiles piled

posthumously into towers too precarious to climb.

Will you love me tomorrow

when I am just as imperfect,

when I lack the easement of my finely attuned senses,

when erosion has absconded with everything

but my beloved melancholia?

I cannot compete with the then

of your tiresome nostalgia.

I am but a momentary thing

recklessly new and irrevocably ancient.

Wordle #116

Week 116

A string of staccato vowels,
a coterie of fireworks, a protean waltz
churning beneath my left breast pocket
like so many precipitous waves.
I wilt under observation,
there are too many eyes
in this room and I cannot
answer them without forgetting myself.

I am a dummy, a trampled wallflower
peeling my spine-prim as a starched collar-
from the shell of a walnut.
I would do anything
to avoid the strop, the proboscis,
the razor-tongued princesses
deadening in their conceit.

I am a well no deeper than a thimble
what I lack cannot be embellished,
what I possess is scarcely worth mimicry.
The stars lie down for me,
they beget me, how can I go on
wasting chance after chance
in the preservation of illusion?

A Long-Winded Ramble

Where do I even begin? I am alive if you discount my new subterranean digs. I read in a book, so it must be true, that summer is a time for rest and gathering experiences for the artist, and for art a time of hibernation. I can only say that despite all the stopping I do during a day it has not involved writing poetry.

Right now it feels as if the universe is trying to evict me, which is of course a terribly dramatic thing to say but I am a terribly dramatic person and you know what I mean. Sometimes it seems like everyone you meet is trying to deconstruct you and rebuild someone else to occupy your space. Everyone is so cocksure that they have the best way to manage life despite the fact that they are just as lost and dysfunctional as everyone else on the planet. Nobody gets it. We aren’t suppose to get it, at least not now in the thick of it.

If you said to me duct tape (which I continuously and annoyingly refer to as duck tape) is the shit I couldn’t argue, duct tape is pretty fucking nifty. But if you said to me that I needed to dedicate an entire room of my house to the storage of duct tape I might wonder a bit about your priorities. I can concede to keeping duct tape on hand but it would be hard to convince me to sacrifice that much space and energy, still that is what we humans do continuously. Once we have decided on our cause we aren’t really satisfied with tolerance or concessions, anything less than adherence seems to us a very affront to our way of life or at the very least it confuses/worries the hell out of us. How can you not love duct tape? Don’t you understand the value of duct tape? Here let me list the merits of duct tape for you one more time. The thing is humans have a way of making doctrines out of the trivial and prisons out of anything handy. I myself have issues that have outgrown themselves, belief systems that are clearly and consciously self-destructive. Belief systems that I peddle to other people because that is the only way to reassure their existence. We often talk about religion when we speak about fanaticism but people can be fanatical about money, food, appearance, work, identity and yes even duct tape. Sometimes we are even fanatical about things we no longer believe in (or have never believed in). A man pursing revenge might at some point realize the futility of his endeavor to ease his suffering or resurrect his lost love but continues, nevertheless, to pursue divergence rather than commit the last 20 years of his life to obscurity. One might brainwash and fortify themselves with a whole host of absurd and even dangerous beliefs rather than admit powerlessness or ignorance. Save me from uncertainty!

I have so much to say and no way to tie it together into a neat little package.

I am shy and I get tired of seeing shy listed as a negative personality trait. 90% of my personality traits seem to fall into the undesirable range.

As a shy person I often feel unwanted/invisible (or visible in a sore thumb kind of way). I feel like others have an easier time making friends or that they are just more likable. I feel like I am destined to be alone. I feel like a creep.

Like many other shy people I limit my social contacts and activities. I select people to talk to based on some arbitrary and inexplicable criteria that leads me to the conclusion that they are slightly less threatening than other people. I might chat with only one person and if that person proves uninterested or incompatible cry about it for days. I might even use it as evidence to validate an already overwhelmingly negative self-image. A social person would talk to many different people thus increasing their odds of making friends. A social person would be both rejected and accepted countless times whereas I would limit my experience of both as much as possible.

As a shy person I say things like “I like being alone” I don’t like people” “I am not that social” and all sorts of other negative garbage that indicates from the start that you shouldn’t bother inviting me anywhere because the answer is “NO!”

As a shy person I reject more invitations than I accept. I reject invitations defensively and automatically, often without even realizing I have done it. Social people accept invitations and make backup plans if they are unable to attend a specific event.

As a shy person I rarely extend an invitation and when I do it is so vague and noncommittal as to be utterly indecipherable. A social person extends invitations and arranges the outing giving specific locations and times.

Now if you point out all these things to me I will agree with you 9/10 but I will still attempt to convince you that the biggest reason I don’t have friends is because I am a freak. I will enthrall you with examples that support my negative self-image and the futility of “making an effort”. I might even conclude that your advice would not work for me because I have already tried it or because I am “beyond help”. This post btw has nothing to do with being shy or making friends. It is really about the beliefs that we cling too and the beliefs we impose on others.

Every time I say I don’t drink coffee I get a reaction. In Sweden coffee isn’t just a beverage it is a way of life and it is tied up with fika culture (fika- taking a break to enjoy coffee and pastries often within a social context). To me it isn’t a big deal I can drink tea or juice and have whatever snack I am craving but to other people it is just plain wrong (I hate donuts and pastries too omg what is wrong with me?!). In early 2000 people were continuously lecturing one another about their Internet habits. Don’t spend too much time online. Don’t check your email too much. Don’t get hooked on those online games. Don’t invite the people you meet online to meet in real life because they could be ax murderers. People were constantly monitoring each other’s online habits and hosting all sorts of well-meaning interventions. Now people sit down to fika with friends and spend the whole time texting, playing games, or surfing the web. Now people take the Internet with them everywhere and prioritize emails, texts, and calls over human contact. If you told someone you didn’t own a cellphone they’d look at you funny and give you a lecture. When I tell people I don’t use my phone to go online they literally take my phone in hand and see if they can connect me to the Internet even though I have no desire to be wired in 24/7. Every second of everyday someone is telling us what to do, how to look, how to relate, how to be, what to think, what to prioritize. We scream at each other day and night “Make my life easier become my blanket, my god, my drug, my slave.” It doesn’t seem to matter that in few years our priorities will change.

I honestly could ramble indefinitely about all the shit rattling around in my brain. I would repeat myself a lot and I would never get to the point. In fact everything I said is probably a lie. I am only thinking.

I have been creating characters actually making them in the Sims and then writing out profiles.

I have been wrestling with self-pity, neediness, and utility.

Why is it that if you can admit your faults that people think you care less?

I have been wondering what to do about MLMM when everyone seems to be leaving. I can’t manage all the prompts alone. I plan to continue offering my prompts but if I can’t find subs for the others they might have to go on hiatus until either the host returns or a sub steps up.

Sam and I received some money from his parents (not just us his sisters too) and now suddenly we don’t have to take on a massive loan for the furnace we can just buy it and that is crazy amazing. The furnace will require the whole sum but it saves us from years of debt and extreme budgeting. Now we can just be normal poor, not scary poor!

Mag 297

Tess Kincaid

I went to market, my girders bundled.

Morsels of malodorous paper pressed

between my stubby blue fingers.

I buy things when I am lonely

for the company of shuffling feet

and smiles tucked way up behind

the ears, almost vertical, like

the mouths nightmares incite.

I no longer remember why I came

only that I have wasted more time

than I have spent. I stand here,

shifting my glaciers pondering

our “suchness”. I am queasy

at the thought of all the “yous”

I might encounter. I sprint from

hollow to hollow, untraceable.

I have been something of a scrooge this year I am afraid. Each year X-mas seems to start earlier and earlier. I tend to think it is the shops trying to milk a little more cash out of the holidays (at least that is what my inner cynic tells me). By November everyone else in the neighborhood was already pimped out for the holidays. I tend to lose steam if I start too early. The special X-mas foods I desperately look forward to all year can get tiring if I start munching away prematurely (oops already did that!). My-mother-in-law is utterly bored with X-mas foods and asked my husband to make dinner this year and just make something altogether different. I have that meeting today! Yeeps.

Wordle #113


Her giggle shatters in my wake

Scoops the moonshine

From its anguished cage

And sends it chattering into

A blustering, cinereous sky.

My sides split and crazy cuts it way

Through the caves inside my head.

Common sense does not exist

When held under such a fearful load.

What a farce it all is?!

If there is anything I can take away

It is this never trust a smiling woman.


Short, silly, and a bit nonsensical. A lot of social anxiety today. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is (actually maybe I can because I wager some of you know already) to have the words fall apart as soon as they leave your mouth. I am humbled everyday by my blundering idiocy.