Wolverine Stew: Making Plans

Tonight I saw

A cord wrapped round a bike

Without its wheels

I wonder whether the wheels or chord

Were there first

I wonder where it goes

The sky is clear except for

The wisps of orange built over the

Day, still the moon is always

Visible, always getting closer to full

I once saw a line of crows calling to

One another across the Diag, from

Downtown to the cemetery to the woods

Today, there were four

Are they here early or late?

I hope to see them all again

Filling budding branches with

Black-feather leaves

The snow melts away, comes back, melts

Away, and I’m not sure where the day went

I just know there’s still more of it

And somewhere in that time inside my room of

Half-lit string lights I’ll have to replace someday

And in those late-night walks, trying to find Orion each time

Remembering a stage formed from

Paper hyacinths and rubber chickens

And in those moments talking about

How falling forever was high school me’s heaven

And taking friends to see the sunset

I think I might be ok

aSoSS 15 | Shoot

Put your hands on your hips… one leg up… yeah!

You know how I do it? I don’t even take photos! I take a video and screenshot!

I take live photos!

Ichiban, 7:00PM, 11/11/2023

our strongest memories are linked by sounds and smells. the running exhaust, the radio leaking through the window, the heat gradient running up the side of my arm from the incandescent lightbulb. photos can only take us so far — they are shortcuts, figures without depth or dimension. try committing these words, this moment, this raindrop of time. let it disappear behind the veil. sights, smells, sounds, me and you. point, grip, pull the trigger.


You look at pictures of your relatives and that’s the only thing you know them by… when people only know you through photos, it’s important to be present.

Couzens Hall, 8:00PM, 1/24/2024

there is a bin of photos for sale at the scrap center, fifty cents per stacked inch. they are shaken out of albums and cards, tossed aside, ink yellowing in the sun. i look through them and i imagine you looking with me, behind my shoulder. i have no photos of you — deleted or neglected, i do not remember — but it does not matter. i think about going to art school so i can learn to draw your face. what force flows through a pencil when it etches the subconscious into reality?


Actually, I didn’t show my teeth because I was insecure, so I didn’t smile.

Glen/Catherine Inbound, 12:00PM, 2/18/2024

an insecure mouth suffocates laughter. it is a cinch, a noose, like being shushed as you are strangled. the snaggletooth peeks out and waves to the camera. your eagerness betrays you, but only for a second. your grandparents sit on the top of the fridge, tight-lipped, stone-faced. i’m sorry, you say. what for? i grab your hand as the shutter clicks. carved out of paper, nonetheless, but a smile preserved.

~Sappy Daze~ Day 1

At Night

Go to the terrace and look down. There 
on the ground dances a fairy. The Moon is 
fond of her. It tries to impress her with a
dress woven together by clouds of silk. 
She runs away by climbing a ladder 
crafted from the starlight unrolled
from her gown and tosses it out over
the sky. In her wake lies the 
empty stage of overgrown ivy.

- Sappy

My Golden Shovel from “Always For the First Time” by Andre Breton, inspired by the parties on campus

Wolverine Stew: Valentine

Cooling chocolate and a pile of

Roses right next to symmetrical puns

Thawing snowy sugar suffused with guava

Dry branches waving in winter winds

A book of cryptids and a mycelial song

I put close to the nerves on my heart

Hoping pale moon eyes and paper ravens

Can reciprocate the joy of

Being with you

Patchwork made of moon and stars

Resting in the theatre

Music blaring in the night sky

Two voices singing, laughing

I’m washing dishes and already she has been hit by a drunk driver

Shot in her bed by police

Her heart fizzled out from loving too much

Many times before going to bed I’ve seen her forgetting my name

I see someone else screening my calls 

Answering with one-word messages before I finally find out the inevitable

I’m in the shower and she’s drowning

From her own blood, in a lake

My father is screaming, my sister is crying, and I’m making funeral arrangements

Trying to remember what the six primary seasonings were, 

where the red beans and rice recipe was whether or not pattern goes with pattern

I want to record our conversations so I have messages to scroll through but I keep thinking about when I get to the end of them

When no one agrees with me

Or sees my side of things

When she finally picks up I remember

I have to stop practicing for my mother’s death