I’ve been writing since childhood, off and on. In high school, a certain teacher introduced me to the work of Charles Simic, and for a while, I practiced imitation. Through that, I think I found my voice.
Monotonic toxic release
Shepard tones, chilling bones
Forever up a stair increase
Not very much of my early work is worth sharing, but replay value is representative of the pre-Simic era.
A series of villanelles, originally published in my school’s paper, “The Wolf Howls”:
- A Heart’s Proprietary Design
- black humor
- The Great Heist
- The False Villanelle – this was meant to end the series, but I hadn’t found closure yet.
- unfinished business
I’ve only ever written one haiku.
I occasionally tried sonnet-like constraints, like Kohlberg’s Devil.
- Hotel Solipcyst – eventually this became a game
- Night Photography
- On Friendship Ending (remixed)
- a ritualistic season(ing) – trying to capture that Louisiana background
- before the wavefunction collapses
- kinematic hedonism
A few of these were written for a very specific audience:
And some others:
- discrete event simulation. – The more I understood, the more it bothered me
- thought-trains and loco locomotives
- red kites and devils’ advocates
Writing almost feels like a lost muscle now, but sometimes it still has to happen.
Hermetically sealed soup is an attempt at finding second wind in an airlock.
I wrote First contact for Once is never, a parkour zine produced by my good friends. Between when I first drafted it and finally finished it, lots happened in the world, and I realized I had inadvertently written about at least 3 totally separate things.
First sonnet in at least a decade involves public transit.
One week after being summoned, I am forced to confront the homeopathological case.