I put my words out to sea; here: in tepid calm waters. I hope the waves churn and froth and foam as I put my whole soul behind the words I sew into my sail.
I think people are deep as oceans. Inside our wet wiggling brains are schools of fish-thoughts just waiting to be caught. Here I hope to cast out my net and draw in some of my own wildness to tame into words.
Whenever the synapses of my brain cross, letting off sparks, I try to capture those bright bursts and put them here. Often a tangled mess, I wind my way through the trenches of my gray matter, and the sludge dug up by these journeys are slung like so much debris onto the internet.
I write what I want to read. I create what does not exist… or what should exist uses me to become. Either way it ends up here, dripping down my spinal cord and bleeding out my fingers tip-tap-typing.
of most any genre and topic. I sometimes feel like the synapses in my brain travel at highway speeds, zipping up and down in gushes and rushes of information. I hope to school them into order, like slots in a parking lot, and let them sleep. It is here I put them to rest.
Who am I?
Well, I don’t really know. Your guess is as good as mine.
I’m something more than what you think of me, I hope.
I suppose I’m the dirty napkins I carefully stack on my plate at restaurant tables.
I’m the trowel left out in the rain at my grandma’s house.
I am the warm indent left in the couch, and the hand print in the frost on my car windshield.
I am the stamped-in tread of my shoes; squiggles at the toes and solid half-moons at the heels, that tramp all over town.
I look something like you, I guess. If you look in the mirror, you see a person trying their best. That’s all I am.
me in five senses
predominantly mousy, with hair and eyes the color of mud. i have a square smile; where my lips pull all the way back to show my canine teeth: they stick out like opera boxes. i have a small nose with a rounded tip that leads up to a stoic forehead. my eyebrows are somewhat unruly at the corners, but i quite like them; my eyelashes are a delicate spray of soot at the edges of my eyes. i wear wire glasses with a slight cat-eye. i am 5’2″ when i am not slouching (but i usually am), slim shoulders curling into a stocky ribcage and broad stomach.
bumpy, on my blemished face; smooth, on my arms and shoulders (sometimes my legs, when i bother to shave); rough on my bitten fingers.
the click-clack of a keyboard, and david bowie crooning in the back of my head.
the scents i wear all the time:
poison ivy, princess mist, apple farm, cashmere glow, and pear berry.
i taste like adventure. also probably toothpaste.
Skwirlio 