Category Archives: sand


what i love about crowds is anonymous. what i love about mornings is alone.

half-lit room. half-drunk coffee. chill on bare shoulders. mechanical washing of last night’s dishes; the morning demands nothing. tactical. silent.  no unresolved questions. there is, however, a fly beating its wings against the window. there is the low light emerging. there are my hands in front of me. there is you, there in the corner. there is you, before you notice me.

what i love about you is



touch stutter

how many times i.
how much i wanted to i.
how much i wanted but i.
how much i thought i could i.
how many times i.
thought that i would but then i.
was what wanted but i.
how many times i.
thought what i should have said i.

fuck it.

if she is old

if she is old.
will antiques fail to interest?

M. Ward / Chinese Translation

fully diggin this song at the moment.

v. the choice

searching is a rigid betrayal of intricate. a violation of love’s own lexis.

(or different)

so fated.
so lingered.
so ceased.
so accepted.
so disconnected.
so hid your knees again.
and waited.

she looked west along the water. as pink as the sky was soft.  her hat gliding on the wind, already too far off to try and catch it.


iv. the hallelujah

“love is not a victory march
it’s a cold and lonely hallelujah.”


a man walks down a dirt road wearing a suit in the sun and carrying something that she can’t identify, cradled like a child. with lobbing glances, the women pass with drained expressions, pretending to be something other than what they feel.

on easter sunday, or any other day, a man tokes a fire in front of a stone cross, wearing a robe and a pompadour hat. he kisses her in her doorway, before riding away on his unicycle. she wakes, periodically, and realizes that she doesn’t look quite right in her old clothes. everything changes. she can’t help but hope that someday she’ll understand the words she has written; the songs she has danced to; the touch that made her, for a moment, forget.

and suddenly, a paint scar is a woven fabric, flapping above her cement ceiling. and although she forgot to throw water on the dust outside her window, three roses open on the patio. in the same way that she can still see the imprint of her sandals. and the dust is from esquintla and taxisco and denver and salcaja. and over it all is the dust from here, where she is standing. it is in her head, in her ears, caked in the small blonde hairs on her arms that he found so strange. she dances, only sometimes, and always carefully, and it is in her very shoes which at night she removes to hang above the three sleeping roses. when she walks off,  it is always barefoot.

leaving the dust behind.

iv. tatuaje

his smooth arms trap heat between her voice and the weight of morning air. liquid drops of snow float beneath the light, unnoticed.

a slow dusk; black pavement; a mid-morning dream. dust settles around objects but never beneath. she cleans quickly, methodically, again.

her dreams are made of ink to thick to turn under.