There are too many angles on the street to see clearly; the corners
obscure the criminals and the magicians as the sound bends into
concertos named after streets, with their cookie fortunes littering
every sidewalk. Night is anything but intermission; its subtle
hum of sleeping inhabitants and constant machinery
is the track to which smog settles into crumbling
crevices, wrapping up
your oxygen for a
small price.
Couldn’t you find the horizon
a little brighter? I make my luck from
whatever sax tune filters out of the buildings or from
under the bridges. To fixate on a smile is to say, “I’ll have
what she’s having.” There’s no need to believe in mass or gravity;
here the angles keep everything turning, turning, turning so you’ll believe
you’ll never have to leave.

!. What made me happiest: Looking up lazy dog breeds with my boyfriend lol
@. What challenged me: Being patient with my pup Mowgli
#. What confused me: The new Kardashian episode
$. What made me laugh: Seeing how happy my bf was watching Star Wars
%. What I’m grateful for: My family and the opportunities I’ve been given
^. What I’m looking forward to tomorrow: Getting shit done
&. What I learned: It’s important to enjoy what you do
*. What I prayed for: My family and for patience

Do you know how to simulate the motion of machinery? The doorway always years away, everything
behind a blue glass plate––each floor and ceiling, reminders of that panicked, sinking feeling.
Swimming as an escape, as in isolation––the delicate mechanism of the mind opening toward
something suspended, dipped by the ankle in revelations: a mirage of a water in an endless
desert, my back bending with deceit, my skin, dry as ice and cracking. Do you know the
feeling? To have the emotions of a machine? To see outside yourself like a camera
without consciousness, watching yourself make mistake after mistake, wondering
what you were thinking? A minute in a wicker chair carves patterns onto my legs
and arms and calves as if I had no say. I imagine sand, the taste, the touch––feel
it scratching at my eyes, the snow like ash in the gaze of the streetlights. Do
you know what it feels like? To live without memories? Without past or future
––a city to build, without wood or brick. But are bodies meant to contain
all this? Meant to smother or suppress experience––a border between
skin and spirit? Like pressing a button to press a button. Do you know
how it feels to feel like a machine? To be seeing outside yourself like a
camera, without consciousness, watching yourself make mistake
after mistake, wondering what you were thinking? Then to know
you were not thinking anything because you are not inside
yourself. I claw at my tongue over the sink: the
thought is enough and
besides, the words
have already