Letter to a conversation on white privilege

A friend of mine has a typewriter in her apartment. When another
friend and I visited, they ended up having a conversation about
whiteness. And how around the mid century “white” became a boring
signifier, and how people in their position have this need to fill the
holes in their lives with other identities to find community and
purpose. And how hard it was to do that without cultural appropriation,

It was bleak, dear reader. A conversation of two madly
well-intentioned friends, both groping at a way to be a flowering human
being while adhering to this strange ethical code.

So I
thought about Robert Moses. And capitalism. And how some old men
dreamers decided to set up the suburbs, make Christmas a consumerist
idolatry, and tore asunder the old affirming bonds of community.

So I wrote this in one take while listening to their conversation:

(text edited a bit for clarity):

your bones are bleached  white.
the calcium leaches out into the warm bath
– of driving to work
– of living in a studio
– of a high holiday dedicated to worshiping the god of veils around objects (Christmas!)
you can purchase some colour at the cost of your marrow.

coca-cola dissolves teeth.
we’ve all done that same experiment in school.

you think you are a canvass waiting to be painted.
I think you are a princess,
ill. the leeches draw away your blood,
balancing your humours.
the old wizards built delicate castles
in their minds. of leechcraft,
their imaginary constitutions will destroy yours.

there is inside you a dancing star.
kill the wizards. salt the leeches.
never apologize for being.

throw a prism on your light and become


Letter to a friend struggling with mental health

Have you read Ella Enchanted?

The sad fact is that you were born with a curse like Ella.
This is not your fault.

unlike Ella we don’t live in a narrative world of freedom and light and
there may never be a sort of “love conquers all” thing that frees you completely.

But also luckily for you we live in a world of freedom and magic and sunshine in other ways.

You are stronger than you think.

And when you are visited with this curse over and over again
It’s just that darn witch making your life harder.
Because you passed the last trial
With flying colors.

And the key to passing the test is the same key you’ve always had.
Like Dorothy in Oz.

It’s love!

Accepting love from your friends
who support you even especially when you’re in a trial.
Instead of less.

love for yourself.
because like Samwise Gamgee
we can’t carry the ring for you
but we can carry you


Dante <3 Beatrice

Beatrice, this is a letter from Hell.

I’m visiting the sepulchre of agony, and the dust, the dust is cloying. I’m here to grow towards God, but all I know is when I see your face my body walks freshly scrubbed through the eternity of circles. Not even Virgil protects like you do.


Growing towards you is not an option. You’ve bounded yourself with brambles in your lonely castle. You’ve got all the growth you can handle.


Not one not two not three times I’ve knocked on your door to hear you were a sleeping beauty. You said you were too busy waiting for your prince to open the door to let me in so I walked straight downwards because hey, at least its warm down here.


Not once not twice but three times you’ve knocked on my church door but you never laid down your 99 theses. You just dashed down a line and hoped it’d be enough to snare me. But one idea isn’t a theology. But one attraction shouldn’t break bonds of monogamy. But one night doesn’t build a real relationship with me so hell no down I go to grow towards god and away from your brambles.


What am I to you? A chore after Virgil’s shift is done, a temporary traveler to the truth, a mortal that needs handholding to reach Paradiso? Because I love hands and I love holding and hey, with you I’m nowhere short of paradise. But if that’s true, rip the scales from my eyes. If that’s true, tell me no more words fine because hey, I may wander but I’m not a wanderer. I may observe but I’m not just an observer. I may be a stranger but I don’t want to be strange to you so


Set a torch to your brambles. Set a brush to your tangles. Wipe the dust out your eyes and write me a letter of theological revolution to nail on my door.

Do that and I will rocket past Charon. Do that and I will thumb my nose to Mammon. Do that and I’ll grin at Lucifer as I bound away because evil will have no hold on me.

Until then I’ll be here growing towards God.

Part 3 in a series


Red River

You are delight and downturn.

You are the rush of dove feathers, startled, every time I see you near.

When I write you a letter you give me a papercut. A papercut that bleeds just a drop every hour you don’t write back. There’s a red river by my writingdesk.

You are desire and distance.

You’ve awoken a lion in me. It has been asleep lazying about on the savannah because no lionness could rouse him from slumber. Now suddenly even chasing antelope doesn’t seem so pointless.

You are distance and desire.

There are two chasms between us that one of us must cross. I can lay down the planks, urge you to swiftly take those two steps across the canyon. I can turn them into mighty bridges decked with roses. But still you must cross.

For you, I am tranquil in a new way. With you, I can see the stars flame out. Next to you, a month seems like a day. Thinking of you, I am wisdom and peace bound up in certainty and justice because lady, you’re worth dreaming about.

But there’s a red river by my writingdesk.

I also wrote this. Read it as if it was a spoken word piece. Part 2 in a series