March 1, 2024
for Guy de Maupassant
There are certain smells that are suspicious, highly ambiguous, like being shouted at in a dark alley. They waft over from those gaggles of women one encounters in working class sections of Paris. Hygienically neglectful, arms heavy from oppressive toil, they sizzle billy goat fumes from the cruxes of their sleeves.
Even more powerful and harsh, I followed such a scent trail to the countryside,
February 27, 2024
They don’t tip and then they ask me to talk, unburden myself. And they think that’s the same. And then they take it further. As if they’ve done something… more. Most guys, well. Yeah. A lot of guys, not you, I’m sorry to put this on you, but it’s true. A lot of guys will tell you it’s okay to talk openly with them. That’s what they want. They want it more than anything else.
February 23, 2024
Scott Litts: So our mutual friend Roman D’Ambrosio told me about your manuscript in early 2022, and said he’d lost contact with you because you’d burn through anonymous/pseudonymous social media accounts and you two had never established a more permanent line of contact. I read the manuscript and was like, we definitely need to find this guy— our only clue basically being “he’s a guy who was and maybe still is in Montreal.” And then I ended up in Montreal in May of that year for work and I met up with some friends I knew there like,
February 20, 2024
I Deactivated X (Formerly Known as Twitter)
I haven’t looked at the sky in years.
The most effective sunsets
are seen while walking out of Walmart.
Mundane mixes with miracle
then you get our semi-charmed life.
Dad’s orgasm was that powerful.
I wrote a book about herbal supplements.
Fuck Obama’s music list and
every opinion on AI art.
No one’s out to get me anymore.
Time to perfect my recently invented
perpetual motion machine.