June 23, 2026

the quiet of the wee hours
the hours after all obligations have ended
and most humans have already gone to sleep —
those are the sacred hours for many a theatre-maker/
artist/
performer/
writer/

night-owl —

i used to worship at the feet of
two
and three am

but something changed in my internal workings;
was it a global pandemic?
or some genetic sleeper cell that had been waiting
all along to detonate?
or a combination of happenstance and physiology
all in one?

i can no longer own the title night owl

i am solidly
early
bird

i now hold in my heart my quiet, special time
of 5 and 6 and 7 am
when everyone
[and the night owls especially]
still dream in soft beds —
i am awake and working on
myself
and my own mind
and writing and writing before the world
churns again

the quiet of the wee hours
can be anyone’s,
whomever needs them

night owl

early bird

and anyone in-between

the hours can be religious in nature
or secular if you need no belief
but the sacredness comes from
inside

the sacredness comes from
what you
need

June 22, 2026

sometimes i will just breathe in
deeply
so deep
my back cracks a little
tiny pop pop poppings
traveling up and down my spine
from where the lungs are filling
outwards
and i cannot tell if that’s a good thing — like
i can expand my lungs so well
that it releases tensions in the bones — or
if it’s a bad thing, because
who else do you know
can crack their back
just by
breathing?

June 21, 2026

here
is all the dog fur
you could ever want

and then some

and then some more
and more and more and more and more
until it’s everywhere
until you’re sick of it
until you’re breathing it in and sneezing it out
every morning
every night
until you realize your wardrobe has shifted to black
right around the time you got a white and tan dog
and her fur is everywhere
you try to hug her
it’s on your body
you try to fold laundry
whoops, you placed that shirt on the bed
which is where she sleeps
which is covered in dog fur
you try to cuddle up with a blanket
spend time with your spouse
walk around your house
and you
your clothes
your body
your socks
are so coated in dog fur
if you happen to walk in stocking feet
elsewhere
you leave footprints of dog fur
where ever you pass

but this dog is so good
you wouldn’t give her up
for anything

[but maybe we could give her a bath
every once in a while…]

June 20, 2026

the content of our content
matters less than the
clicks it amasses
and i guess i’m just too tired
to care about algorithms and
search engine optimization and
making myself into a brand or whatever

i’ve only been around thirty-some-odd years
but i feel as though i’ve lived a hundred of those
[and yet i only have the total memory of like five,
so interpret all my complaints however you will]
so i’m not going to waste my time with clickbait
and playing a game for an entity i think
could bring good
but is currently
absolutely
not

i’m not against the internet
i’m against how it’s being used and utilized
by the vulture class

[might i not actually be against capitalism, but instead
against how it’s being used and utilized
and structured and exploited
by the vulture class, too?]

[maybe at its basest definition

but capitalism has changed meanings
as it means now — accumulation of wealth for the wealthy
by feeding off consumerist culture
and the only way it stays stable is to
grow
fast
exponentially —

i’m definitely against all that.]

but a tirade against capitalism isn’t how this poem started
[that is how many of my poems end]

i’d love to be assessed for the content of my content
not the number or type or flashiness of the thumbnail

[though, in the end, we’re all left screaming into the void
and the void never ever
calls back]

June 19, 2026

the secrets of the morning
only come out for those who pay
attention
and time
and a little bit of caffeine to the gods of
light birdsong
color-changing skies
a quiet you can’t quite name
and the awareness that
in a world of billions
you can still feel like the only
one

June 18, 2026

beautiful words
about ugly things
i wish i could write like my thoughts were cursive
calligraphy
a cartography of trauma set in gorgeous handwriting

but i’m a type-writer
printed and sure
un-erasable blank ink holding
my most ephemeral thoughts
not beautifully tragic
but solidly uncertain words
in the most permanent of ways of writings
we use today

[but nothing will survive the heat death of dominicus
right?]

June 17, 2026

it’s always so fascinating to me
watching my poetry
slide from one subject matter
[an introductory topic, if you will]
into the underlying
what-it’s-really-about
as if my conscious brain
*almost* gets it
but *always* needs to let the
subconscious brain take over
to get to the heart of the matter
[and if i try to control too much —
with form or function or rhyme or
look — the underlying message can’t come out;
or still does, but ruins whatever basis i had
laid out] and this pattern, of
almost-but-not-quite-knowing what my poetry will really
be containing, is like watching a movie of your own life
in front of you — you know what it was like behind your eyes
but from this third-person vantage, it’s all a little off
a little wild
a little unsettling in its
potential comfort,
but still entertaining
because of the new
perspective

that’s what my morning poetry is like
for me, most
mornings

June 15, 2026

living in one world
or another

splitting my focus

when one takes over
the other needs to take a backseat

and sometimes
because of how much i love each thing
a backseat feels like
it fell off the vehicle
entirely

but i turn around
and pick it back up
and gently place it
front seat and center again in my focus
until the split needs to happen once more

it’s hard loving so many things
so many activities
so many lives

[but it’s only ever hard on the focus needed
the actual amount of love i have is
absolutely limitless]

June 14, 2026

i feel like i’m coasting
sliding around in
almost-depression-land
and i can’t tell what’s
keeping me relatively afloat —
is it having theatre again?
is it my kip? my cat? my dog?
is it my brain chemistry/hormone levels finally calming and settling?
is it the summer heat?
or the summer sunlight?
is it the medication whose only job is to keep the depression from overtaking me?
is it some combination of all of these?

but it’s so strange to feel
the slippery sliding that usually means
an approach to a worse and worse time
but then feeling overall mildly okay