The hallucinator sees the contents of their mind spread out before them, like dusty old knickknacks brought up from the basement and strewn out in the front yard. Their minds become a kaleidoscope. They look at their life and see themselves as a miracle. An accidental poem by this article in The Atlantic.


It is a wonder that my eyes may see the city from such varied perches, day to day: By bus: elevated so that I may gaze indulgently into wet, dirt-caked cavities of construction sites hidden when I am By bike: so that the flawed contours of road, frenzied traffic patterns spill soft city breath onContinue reading “PHILADELPHIA, NAKED.”


What it takes is not thought but action, rejecting the snooze button, flowing in a a soft pocket of warmth into the early morning chill. The silver diamond-patterned food cart on the sidewalk puffing its essential oniony fumes and kaleidoscope reflecting a new sun. Gone is the summer air, which incubates into stew of nothingness. AutumnContinue reading “AUTUMN MORNINGS IN PHILADELPHIA”


Certain of nothing now but smiling and the pup, sighing tired sighs in my lap. Possibility of the day’s last minutes growing limp like wilted radish greens. What I could start and not finish haunts me. Dinner was invented, destroyed, and the dishes speak of a modern, though pointless porcelain sculpture. And isn’t that theContinue reading “THE DAY’S LAST MINUTES”