A collection of prose discarded in sorrow


He was brave in ways that did not make big legends, but drilled bad boys into good men. He was the one to remind us to say thank you, to step aside for our elders, and to return the things we stole. Heroism as a form of grace. He saved us from our future memories. He saved us from she same we’d assign to ourselves. Saved us from ever knowing the reach of our evils.


Don’t go burying yourself into my skin. Like some secret. Instead. Lay your body on top of mine. Let’s love like layers of sediment. Love like the creation of mountains.


There is no civil without savage. Both extremes exist on a single line, the mirrored halves of a single body, for even the savage have ceremony and the civil brutal consequence.

It’s easier. If you just vibrate.


America is not it’s cities. Cities are everywhere from Manila to Nairobi. America is it’s open road, vast country stitching farmland to mountains, bayou to desert, canyon to delta, and tundra to rainforest—a silent tapestry from one coast to another. Miles of a mimic of the world. And yet, still, even as a citizen for as many years as I’ve breathed, beyond these city walls, I dare not think any of that mine.

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I am often asked what I do for a living; the simple answer is, I make stuff. I make stuff with my bare hands, with code, with colors, with words. I aid in making the people around me realize their optimum selves. I make my mother proud. I try to make my kids happy and encourage them to contribute more than they consume. I make sure self comes first. I make money. I make my own luck. I make a pretty solid french toast. And I do all that I can everyday to make the world better than it was yesterday.