Careful What You Fish For

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” - Theodore Roosevelt

Dear little seahorse,
what makes you gasp
in these clear,
superficial shallows?

The sun shines
all the way to the bottom—
you, who have survived
the darkest depths,
should know how to breathe here.

But no—
you float in sunshine,
still sulk like it’s storming.
You say, “Not enough sun!”
“Not enough fun!”
“Adventure, please—extra splash!”
But your bubbles burst too fast.

Remember that crab
you once cried over?
Now offers to share a cozy shell—

but no, no—
now it's starfish you want.
And dolphins. And sea parties
with jellyfish disco lights.

You want more, more, more—
the whole reef or none at all.

But sweet sea pony,
you could meet every fish in the reef
and still miss the one creature
you really need to know.

When’s the last time
you said hi to yourself?

Perhaps, while watching
where everyone else swims,
you forgot where you’ve been,
where you are, where you're going—

forgot how your tail curls tight
around swaying grass,
how your eyes see two truths at once,
how your daily, delicate dance
deepens love that lasts.

You vanish into coral—
a quiet magic.
The starfish and dolphin
dance in the open—
watched, wanted,
caught, and often killed.

Social Behavior in Coral Reef Seahorses

In the shallow, sunlit waters of the coral reef, the little seahorse seems to gasp—a curious sight in such clear, bright surroundings. Though he has survived the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean, this delicate creature now navigates the gentle sway of sea grass beds and shallow lagoons.

Seahorses are unlike most fish. They swim upright and use their prehensile tails to anchor themselves to coral or plants, helping them stay safe from currents and predators. Their eyes move independently, allowing them to scan for food and danger simultaneously. Notice how his tail gently curls around the sea grass, securing him like an anchor, and observe his eyes—looking in two different directions at once—revealing the quiet mysteries this small creature holds.

Yet, despite these remarkable adaptations, he drifts quietly beneath the sunlight, almost sulking, as if waiting for a storm to arrive. He longs for more warmth, more movement, more excitement—but his tiny bubbles burst quickly in the calm water, fragile signs of his delicate nature.

This seahorse often displays surprising behaviors; he now seems to seek the company of other reef creatures: starfish, dolphins, and the shimmering glow of jellyfish that light up underwater gatherings at night.

Strange company for a seahorse. Seahorses are known for their monogamous bonds, often forming lifelong partnerships. Each day, mates engage in intricate dances and color changes to reinforce their connection—a ritual unique in the animal kingdom. This, however, is something a starfish or dolphin could never understand. In fact, the starfish and dolphin do not wish to understand.

Yes, they move boldly in open water—visible, admired, but vulnerable to predators and human hunters—while the seahorse explores the reef and meets many neighbors, yet may overlook his most important discovery: himself.

If the seahorse wishes to survive he must return to his nature—tucked safely in coral crevices and sea grass beds with the other seahorses. Here, he lives as a subtle, enchanting presence within the vibrant and fragile ecosystem of the reef. 

No Ticket Needed

They say this kind of pleasure
is silver-screen fantasy—
a fleeting heat you chase
into velvet evenings
before it burns out.

Give it time:
it returns soft,
unannounced,
on demand.

In my bed,
on my neck,
at my fingertips—
where only walls
and the empty chair
are witness.

Eventually, it’s everywhere—
licked clean,
slowed for softer hours,
still tasting
like the first time.

I’ve watched old films replay—
but you?
You never play
the same twice.

Sometimes a hand,
a murmur,
just breath—
subtle shifts
and my skin remembers
what I never knew
I was waiting for
until you arrived.

Isn’t that the rhythm?
Urgency softens to ache,
ache blooms to ritual.
Even the inevitable
finds fresh ways
to surprise the senses.

I could rush—
press you close,
pant with longing,
chase that high
before you’re ready,
before I am,
before the world
can hold the pull.

But I don’t want the trailer.
I want the whole damn season—
the director’s cut,
behind the scenes,
uncut magic—how you move
when no one’s watching.

So I let it drip slow,
like butter
melting on warm toast—

In my mind, I trace our edges,
let bedrock hum low,
let air thicken
with the scent
of when we both
arrive at yes.

I’m in no fucking hurry.
Let me wait a century.
Make me wait past death.
I’ve needed a lesson
in patience for a while.

Let it linger,
sway,
come ripe—
shaking with spill.

Because what’s worth keeping
never crashes.
It glides.
It sighs.
It slips its dress off
just so—
and puddles on the floor.

And if it does—
no ticket needed:
just you, me,
everywhere.

And if it doesn't—
no apology needed:
I have the beauty
my waiting became.

Mission Impossible

The ad said this film is only in theaters.
As if that made it rare—
a fleeting moment you must chase
before it vanishes.

But I’ve lived long enough to know:
in a month, maybe two,
it will arrive quietly—
on streaming,
on disc,
on demand—
at your fingertips,
on your terms.
Everywhere—except the theater.

A year from now, it’ll play on TBS—
every other Sunday, spliced
with enough commercials
and edits to make it
feel like a new movie.
I watched The Mummy with Tom Cruise
three times on t.v. this month
for free. It was just on—
it's low glow beaconing me.

Isn’t that how it goes?
The urgent becomes ordinary.
The rare becomes routine.
The ephemeral becomes inevitable. 
Even the spectacular comes home,
if you wait long enough.

You could rush now—
press in with the crowds,
pay more
for the shallow high
of being first to feel
what hasn’t had time
to mean something yet.

Because every day,
something is billed
as only in theaters.
But nothing stays
exclusive forever.
Everything is mine
with enough time.

So I’m in no fucking hurry.
I could wait a century
for something I want.
Let it ache a little.
Let it burn low.
Let it lie covert.
Let it shyly unfurl.
Let it come to and for you—
Wherever you are.

Things meant to be
don’t beg to be rushed.
They unfold
when the moment is easy,
when the rhythm is right.

husband.mows.exe

<img src="wfh.jpg" alt="Work From Home They Say" width="500" height="600">

⌨️
login:
hi, it’s me // again
🏠 ← → 💼 (work = home = work)
i/love/this: [house] [job] [routine?]

view-source:
🔔 ping—
inbox bares its tenth tooth
{_._DumpException(dog)}
dogs bark in stereo
need / want / yard
piss on grass #FreshlyMowed

query:
why does desk feel
mouthlike?
why does the screen blink
⚡wild⚡ — daring me
[to shutdown()]

🌿 outside:
a breeze coded in chlorophyll
ctrl-x the summer lawn—
his mower parses life
into clean loops,
each blade trimmed.
he is not in screentime; he is rebellion.

🖱️ inside:
i am cursor → scroll →
accept → redline → forget
this.i.clearTimeout(null)

🍅
meanwhile: tomatoes dream in soil
blushing, awaiting fingers
—not files.

this contract has no scent.
my hands want dirt.
the dogs want joy.
the earth wants me back.

my husband mows the lawn—
a momentary break.

My Husband Cuts the Grass as I Stare at a Computer Screen

Work from home.
Love my work.
Love my home.

Work from home:
emails bloom
while dogs bark to be let out.
Love this house.
Love what I do—

so why
does this job—
this desk—
this blinking screen
feel wrong?

The scent drifts in:
fresh-cut grass,
wild clover,
sun-warmed air.

Tomatoes wait in my mind—
red, ripe, not yet real—
while I revise
a contract
that means nothing
to my hands,
my waiting dogs,
or my moist soil.

Do Androids Dream of Electric Memes?

thanks
—for the .png/
someone else's syntax
slouched in pixels
(not yours
were you ever here?)

```

tap—flick—vanish

ghost, i'm not convinced
you're not a bot

```

why was this sent?

because you felt it?
or because it scrolled pretty?
or because the ache inside
needed to borrow someone else's voice
to survive 3 seconds more?

i saw the caption: “lol.”
but it bled into blank space

```

        …did it remind you of me?

```

or was it inertia?
ghost-touch, ghost-thought,
ghost-you, ghost-me

this isn't a conversation, it's
a drift —

captioned static,
a glitch, a broken link,
404 error, corrupted data,
disguised as connection

crafted by hands
that will never hold yours
or mine. the mind we will
never know

once [upon a time]
[so i'm told] we sent
words
naked
in ink
& breath

folded paper
that knew your hands
smelled like the drawer it lived in
assured me you were real
when i held it too

```

         the pause
            between "dear" and "you"
when everyone was dear.

```

images too—
but they were ours
grainy, angled badly,
real, blurry, faded,
worn from being handled
held and gazed upon

now:

usernames forward
forward
forward
someone else's joke
(someone assumed // it could be a bot)

everything may be faked

i want to scream in cursive.
i want to mean like the crease
in the letter expanding into a hole
the destructive wear of love 

//folded//unfolded//folded///unfolded
not left on read but 
read & re-read & re-read
word treaded into meaning

but instead:

i meme you this silence
we
    can
       haunt
       and ghost
each other

together // apart // a part
of this new world

as if you are the last girl
on earth
and i — your robot friend —
pretend to feel the ~ beep ~ beep ~ beep ~

coded in me.

What does it all meme?

Thanks for the picture—
someone else’s words.
Not yours,
just tapped, sent,
in half a second.

Why?

Because you liked it?
Because it meant something—
a flicker of truth,
a joke with teeth,
a quiet plea I was meant to hear?

Is this how you see me?
Or was it nothing—
a thumb grazing glass,
ghost-touch,
no pulse behind it?

What does it say—
this image with text,
pixel-perfect, ambient data,
crafted by a stranger 
who will never know us?

Once,
people spoke—
face to face,
or voice to voice,
or scratched their thoughts
into paper
meant for one pair of eyes.

Sometimes they sent pictures,
but only ones they took.
Of themselves.
Of something they saw
and wanted you to see.
A photo used to cry out
"See this world as I do."
Date written on the back
not time-stamped.

I wonder
if we’ve forgotten how
to mean something.
Meaning was in the mess;
don't filter it out.
Not for me at least.

Anyway—
I’ll send a meme back.
We can keep not meaning
anything together.

monthly eucharist

My body keeps churning out blood clots, plopping out like buttery slugs every hour. Christ bled too, through a slit—not between his legs, but in his side from a Roman spear. Maybe that’s why His blood is holy and mine is unclean. He poured it into a cup, passed it around, said, “This is my blood,” and men drank it without flinching. That ritual continues every day, all around the world—even at the Pope’s funeral. If it were my blood, the disciples would gag. And yet, each month, I feel a strange kinship with Jesus. I wonder, if He had been the Daughter of God instead, would churches pass around menstrual cups of wine? Maybe we’d recognize a different kind of holiness. I feel connected to Him in those moments. The only difference is—He only bled once.

men·stru·a·tion con·ster·na·tion

My body — churns
(butter? nah — blood)
coagulates and spills
every hour.

ℭ𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬𝔬.
His wound: also a slit
(but — spear 2 the side)
cleaner. nobler. holier.
mine: unclean. inconvenient.
𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞 𝖍𝖊𝖑𝖑 —

“tHiS iS mY bLoOd,” he said.
𝖒𝖊𝖓 𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖚𝖕—
sw@ll0w3d it whole,
guzzled it like ji$$.
#sorry — is that sacrilege?

…or truth?
Still, dey drink.
Even 2day.
#Blessed #Faith

(っ◔◡◔)っ Mine?
  they’d gag.
   flinch.
˜”*°• pretend it ain't divine. •°*”˜

<communion><communication>
menstruation = consternation
MAKE_me_A_man —
and the kardinalz
would be sucking it down
monthly like rent...

after all,

n
o

o
f
f
e
n
s
e

✌𝓙𝓮𝓼𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓷𝓵𝔂 𝓫𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓸𝓷𝓬𝓮.✌

ciphers/sisters

the women in my life =
a wet web, shimmering—
               unsummarizable.

their messages:
grainy voicemails / emojied lists /
one-word texts / snail mail (still slimey)
humming beneath

a pond-surface plain—
but dive:
fish / algae /
eels—
a whole ecosystem fucking
in the stillness of a second.

one says:
“teaching summer PE”
[translation]
she wears the gay trope
like vintage jean jacket—
worn, wanting,
exactly hers &
her co-workers like it
('like' like liking a FB post)

another:
weight loss / shirt won’t fit—
nothing fits
anymore / new clothes?
—keep the old? how long?
and I’m brushing dust from vertebrae:
the bone-curve of her,
slipping
off the map
of who she's been.
the end = unknown.

a third:
condo listing / square footage / open house
she's selling it.....
I hear scissors snip:
thread cut.
gravity—optional.
maybe she floats past stars next month.

one sends a photo—
yes, a couch
(yes, perfect)
and in that Ikea angle, I see:
it’s about him
about how couch-shape / match
his absence.
home now = (her - him) + couch

another:
letter.
art again.
not for money.
not for clapping hands.
I read the ledger:
loss, subtracted.
herself, added.

and then me:
MBA class one.
then none.
my reply, plainspoken:
“I’m done with school."

but I trust them—
cartographers of the in between
my encrypted
~ notification ~
they’ll read
what I really sent:

a matching thread in their wet web—
pluck my meaning from the lake.
Sisters! Sisters!
I won't be
\\\weary\\\anymore\\\

women are a vast and wonderous thing.

The women in my life are a vast and wondrous thing—  

sending me the plainest of messages  

laced with the deepest codes,  

like the smooth surface of a pond  

teeming beneath with algae and eels,
and fish fucking.

One tells me she’ll teach Summer P.E.  

And like a detective dusting for prints,  

I read between the words: a lesbian so seen at work,  

she slips into the cliché like it was tailored for her.

Another texts about weight loss and clothes—  

but I, an archaeologist brushing bones,  

surmise her body is shifting fast.  

She doesn’t know how much or how long.

A third sends her condo listing.  

I, a coroner reading cause of death,  

see in the square footage and staged light  

that she's cutting every tether—  

might just float off the earth by May.

A friend sends a photo of “the perfect couch.”  

I, a WWII codebreaker with Enigma in hand,  

decipher her meaning: it fits perfectly—  

like a man once filled imperfectly, earlier this year.

Then a letter arrives, about making art again.  

The auditor in me reads her ledger lines:  

a woman no longer chasing approval or paychecks,  

but creating for herself. Finally.

Like a train conductor checking his pocket watch,  

I time my reply:  

“After one class, I’m quitting the MBA.”  

I trust these women will read what’s hidden  

in the simple words—  

the vast and wondrous thing  

I’ve sent in return.