read things i wrote.
You were the mystery novel I chose from the bookshelf to get lost in for a spell. Your cover promised intrigue, and, like every good crime, a puzzle to be solved; clues scattered through, sinister suspects like ghosts flitting in and out of your pages, pretending to be the answer.
Tuesday morning was cold like a good stainless-steel whiskey stone and had a bite to it like a good whiskey.
I ducked into my trench coat collar, my one defense against the relentless gusts trilling a banshee chorus, as I braved the blistering trek from Altima door to strip-mall storefront.
i learned to ride a bike the way we all do:
you, running beside me, one hand on my back,
other hand with mine, gripping the handles.
It’s a rainy day on the first of the month and I’m sitting here writing about failure, and i couldn’t be more optimistic about the whole thing.
Because filling in the blanks is the scariest part.
We live in a time of stark political upheaval, in an age marked by our ability to communicate with more people than ever, in more ways than ever, thanks to our portable datastreams and the serpentine tendrils of social networking. This relatively-new endlessness of interaction raises some serious questions, questions like, “can you be ‘off fleek’?” and “what makes a meme truly ‘dank’?” and “how do I exercise my God-given right to convince people who are wrong that they're wrong?”