poetry is hard to translate

i have 88 keys and
felt hammers that
strike hidden strings
leading to my spinal
and i remain silent
the world plays me
like a drum
but i won’t speak
there is a hat filled
with scraps of paper
we all dip our hands in
i have drawn words
that none of you
will ever guess

j'ai quatre-vingt-huit de touches
et marteaux de feutre qui
frappent les ficelles dissimulées
conduisant à mon moelle corde
et je reste muet
le monde joue de moi
comme un tambour
mais je ne parle pas
il y a un chapeau rempli
avec les bouts de papier
nos mains plongent à l’intérieur
j’ai pris les mots
personne ne les devinera


the future... of journalism!

what do we know about the future of journalism? will it be a paradisiacal wonderland of journalistic fun and excitement? will it be so awesome that my eyes will melt from gazing on its glorious visage? or will it be mostly boring and awful?

after reading an article called "The Future (We Hope) of Journalism" that my creative writing teacher directed me to, i have concluded that the answer is definitely boring and awful. you can search for the article if you want to come to the same conclusion, but i have decided not to link to it here, as i don't want to bore you to death. the main point of the article is that online content will play a role in the future of journalism, but won't be able to entirely replace the traditional OH GOD my heart almost stopped from the boredom THAT was a close one.

in lieu of that cesspool of awfulness, i would like to provide an alternate future of journalism that i have just made up on the spot. in my future of journalism, there will be no more newspapers, and we will all have jetpacks. everything else is superfluous.





I have never been more excited.


the way i write

writing comes from outside me and
i reach towards it with one hand
wrapped around a pencil, it snorts
and pounds the ground with
its hooves but i dress in a fancy sash
and turn my back to the audience.
writing is afraid of the helicopters
tracing its footprints with spotlights.
i promise writing i will never tell
that it can hide behind my secret door
which is a luxurious very old bookcase
and when you pull on the almanac
from the year your grandfather was born
it will not come off the shelf.



here is a picture of a brown bear underwater

the intensity with which i intend to blog will rival the virgin birth of jesus christ

i am going to blog SO hard, it's gonna be unbelievable