the pleasure of letters and butter and lobsters, nestled / in linen, unable to answer, the pleasure of curtains, / their sun-dappled shadows

Yet what I fall into when I throw myself wholeheartedly into friendships with elders is not time’s scarcity, but its abundance

Be grateful inside the storm. You are our perfect audience. You are flesh blended into machinery.

i name a thing & occupy its territory. i hear / glory, is to kill this image with the sound of hooves

How your body can stay very still while your mind climbs out through the ceiling.

cratered once-oceans / looping the lunar / phases, playing our faces / on shuffle, no [[ agents ]] to label us / illegal

the people will not choke the people will choke. the future is a magic eight ball.

Earth pocked by shrapnel / and fallen fruit. Heavy trees, intent / on still giving.

Dainty was she, with pistols and desert roses / in the dune mosques of the Sahel that foretold her safeness.

Sometimes we cried from exhaustion, the unknowns of the pandemic, and the suffocating feeling of loving a person so much you wanted to climb into their mouth.

You had no intention of ringing the bell, acting as if nothing had happened, as if five years were enough time to fill the emptiness she left behind.

"My approach draws from the Chinese zhiguai tradition, the genre of ‘strange tales’ that cannot be translated directly through the lens of horror."

"My practice is rooted in the veneration of narratives as the truest markers of ancestry and lineage."

"I was the first cigarette, untouched out of a new pack, she inhaled me"

"I’ve done some rash, impulsive shit in the name of love—built monuments to things that didn’t last. I mapped out futures for people who never asked for permanence."