Somewhere in this moment, there is a kind of poetry that expresses exactly what is being felt. It’s not there to show off. It’s not there to convince you (or anyone) of anything. It’s simply there to offer this experience. The experience of the one experiencing. Perhaps it’s one of those poems that can only be written in the mind, for words — images even — reduce it too far.

Maybe it’s hiding just after this next breath.


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I remember my mom giving me her old record player. It was about the size of a small (1980’s) TV, and had speakers that unfolded to reveal the
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Whose timeline, exactly? Currently, there are two contracts floating out there that will represent a good amount of what my fall will look like. One’s been in the works for