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.”


I’m sitting at the glass balcony and the sky is filling high tide with copper and lilacs. Small kids wear blue oversized football helmets and run in synchronized patterns in the field below. Now they hold hands, sweat caught in eyelashes (I’m guessing). They jump and spin and can’t stand still.