our compost
fertile scraps

some stuff that was cast off but has life yet to give ...

POEMTHING: mary said [2021 mfh]

poem mfh found in an old journal. in case you were wondering, mary is a vermont friend who's also a phlebotomist.

text below, audio here


Mary said,

when the plumbers

come, they're

always surprised

I understand how

everything works:

the pressure gradients,

the invisible see-saws

that move water

from the quiet woods

to the quiet house.

but it's all

the same. blood, pipes,

heart, rocks, gush,

flow, artery, gravity.

pulse, creek, plunge.

my fingers know

what a vacuum

can do, how

a slight tug at

just the right

place can mean

life or drought.

they know how

just the right gradient

keeps a network

flushed, brimming,

a body pulsing, a

house thrumming.

they know squeeze.

loose. that wrench,

no, needle, over there.

pinch. turn. hold,

release. they know

a body and a house

are both just places

you can make

a home.

SLEEPAIDTHING: bedtime stories [2021 rg]

text remnants from a season of insomnia. written immediately before attempting sleep and/or in the night's restless depths. [occasionally] helpful.

compiled pdf here

scanned jpgs here

audio file here

SCULPTURETHING: heads [2020-2021 rg]

funky sculptris experiments. cousins?

ZINETHING: summer stories [2019-rg]

2019 summer zine series that started and ended with the gushy volume 19.1 ["empty bucket filling up"].

free digital version here

audio version here

physical copies available by email

POEMTHING: sweet dreams [2019 rg]

rough draft of an insomnia poem [unedited]

text below, audio here


sweet dreams little brain

be soft now and feather-edged

it’s bed time now

so let it all snowglobe down to the bottom

dust the ground

you can pick up the stuff that’s big enough

to hold in the morning

for now let the ceiling be your ocean

(cheesy, I know, but just do it)

feel the waves swell and sink

swish and foam

let the seabreeze cool you down

let the sand warm you up

let the water wash your braintoes

wash your brainlegs and your brainbody

and even your brainbrain

float and bob

immersed and untethered

in your ceilingsea

FLASHTHING: a mouse [2017 rg]

an abandoned little story about an abandoned little mouse [unedited]

text below, audio here


There is a mouse who eats bones and she lives inside a coffin. “What a good place to live” she thinks every time she sniffs out a new bone to nibble on. Though the supply is not endless, it is ample. And ample is quite enough for a young mouse in a coffin.

Of course, the mouse cannot see. There is no light. In fact she has never seen any light. She was born after the coffin was already in the ground. Her mother snuck in while the funeral guests were making awkward attempts at conversation by the cheese platter. A close scrape with a shuffling foot startled her, and she scurried off to safety in the velvet darkness. Soon enough, the coffin was closed and by then there was no escape. She tried chewing through the velvet, but the hard wood was too much. Defeated, she lay down and rubbed her nose into a soft corner.

Soon after the darkness came, the mother gave birth to a litter of mice pups. At first they all lived. Then some of them died. Eventually the mother died too and now only one mouse pup remains. This mouse pup likes the smell of velvet and the taste of bones. She is a very lucky mouse indeed.

The coffin has one corner for sleeping, one corner for “daily undesirables,” and another corner for artifacts. The fourth corner is where the mouse keeps the bones of her mother and siblings. When she is feeling lonely she rubs her whiskers on the little ribs and the delicate skulls. The sound is small but it fills the whole coffin. And it’s hard to be lonely in a coffin filled with sounds.

Sometimes the mouse likes to sit in the space between the two shoes. With her nose poking out between the soles, both sides of her body rub against the pant legs. Velvet on her stomach and silk on both sides. When she sits here she can think clearly about the things she has done and the things she will do. If she has brought a bit of bone, she can chew on it in peace.

NOTEBOOKTHING: estrella [2017 rg]

constellation of 25 pinpricks from a february in 2017.

read or don't here

PRINTTHING: sketches [2016 rg]

some digital sketches made during a summer alone.

selections from the compost heap here

FLASHTHING: rip [2016 rg]

socially anxious flash memoir. [unedited]

text below, audio here


Ok — so you walk in the room and you see a bunch of people that you know, and then some others that you don’t, and you can tell for sure that this is not a funeral, because if it were a funeral everyone would be dressed in fancy black, but instead everyone here is dressed in grungy black, the type of black you’d maybe wear if you wanted to interview for a job as a bike mechanic or for a sales position at an underground record store, but not the type of black you’d likely see at the Monahan Drabble Sherman Funeral Home down on Waterman Street, because if you were there you’d see people with suits and ties and tears in their eyes, but instead you’re up on North Main at some warehouse-type place, and there are people with cigarettes and torn pants and greasy hair and cans of beer, and you’re realizing that maybe you and the friend you biked here with are the only people not dressed in black, and in fact you’re starting to realize that even though there are people who you know, you are not feeling anything close to comfortable, but instead are feeling a little bit like a child who has walked into a frat party, but of course you’re not a child and this is not a fraternity, but it’s disorienting, and even though you like concerts, you’re not sure if you’re gonna like this one because it seems like you’re gonna feel like a child at a frat party the whole night, and maybe you’d rather be at home reading your way through the books stacked next to your bed, or maybe you’d prefer to Skype your parents and listen to them talk about the weather in Phoenix, or maybe, in fact, you’d simply like to go to sleep, but instead you’re here, in a puffy, blue, winter coat with your gloves in your pockets, hands still cold from the bike ride over, and you’re feeling like a child at a frat party where everyone is dressed like they’re at Mick Jagger’s funeral, and the music is discordant and throbbing, and you’re doing everything in your power to avoid talking with anyone because it’s hard to project your voice, and you hate having to repeat yourself, and so you’re keeping your eyes fixed on the places where the walls meet the ceiling and you’re weighing the possibility of asking for your money back so you can leave this place, and get on your bike, and make your way back home, to a place you can hear, to a place you can breathe, to a place you can rest in peace.