everything is interesting

This Month’s

hello

Cillian forever
On modern poetry (and anti-sonnets)
It’s not you, it’s Big Jalapeño
Reality TV is our Shakespeare!
On rest, resistance, and how they aren’t the same
We are all just taking care of the inner child
Dancing is always the answer

first draft club

I am stitched with spring fever even though my winter itch has not been scratched.

I am thinking about what I’d say in an Oscar acceptance speech: I’d like to thank my choir teacher, the novelist who told me I was writing poems, and the Academy for creating an award for people who have nothing to do with movies.

I am considering the verb “to be” which I consider often: how not to use it even though it is, actually, the returning place.

The other day, I drove home barefoot and walked on our boulevard. The grass was more mud than sprout and I felt my toes squish against the laid-bare earth. It felt delightful in that gross way, like unclogging hair from the bathroom sink. Somehow, deeply satisfying to feel the return of muck. Spring is like that: here all at once and then interrupted with snowstorms and frozen bulbs.