Play

Repurposed some old writable CDs/DVDs

Image of CDs and DVDs

The darker ones are DVDs; the lighter ones are CDs.

Getting off the train

CTA

There’s this moment after I get off the train, and I’m passing it because I’m walking and it’s stopped, that it starts moving again in the same direction as me, and it takes about one to two seconds for the train to catch up to my speed, but when it does, there are another one to two seconds during which my speed matches the train’s exactly, and I always look forward to this one- to two-second period whenever I get off the train, because here we are strolling alongside each other and neither of us are actually moving at all relative to the other—rather, the ground and walls are zipping back behind us as we float through them, bobbing up and down.

The Inherent Irony of Censorship

The Inherent Irony of
Censorship

From Censorship of Cabanel’s The Birth of Venus.

Censorship of Cabanel's The Birth of Venus

Censorship of Cabanel's The Birth of Venus

Rant

Blurred—nigh invisible, perhaps nonexistent—is the line that separates the most abstract of art from a meaningless cacophony of stream-of-consciousness-produced miscellany. Art at times descends into a realm so abstract that its meaning is long forgotten, its original intentions irrelevant; it spins in a black hole whirlpool of pretentious self-perpetuation, boring the well-adjusted, drawing the pseudo-intellectual.

Only Angels Should Be Allowed To Sing

Around the corner from here, past the seedy convenience store, through the run-down house … and under the pile of lumber, you’ll find the portal to heaven.

Eavesdropping

Note: The quotes in this poem are taken from actual quotes overheard at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts during a visit there.

Hockey Dreams

Thwack/Hockey stick against street hockey ball…

Heavy Metal

It is like a machine…

Blank Pages

They are an open invitation…

She

She never let me inside her head, but I wish she had, …

Why I Shouldn't Write

I shouldn’t write because I can never come up with good names for my characters…

Why I Write

I write because I can make stuff up from scratch.

The Stranger

There she sat…

Untitled

Note: This is by no means a completed and polished story. It started as a journal entry (hence the “Untitled”-ness), and sort of morphed its way into short storydom.