Uniformity and exclusion are as shit in poetry as they are in our institutions and communities.

Sometimes, we just need to be with each other.

A power outage just ended here. Everywhere I’ve lived, folks can’t go outside when the power’s on and can’t stay inside when the power’s off.

I’m going to put googly eyes on this two-liter of Cherry Coke and call it my best friend.

Thank you to those who make me feel like I belong—in poetry, in my communities, and on this planet.

Poetry can be a matter of life and death, even for the poet whose work you don’t admire. Some things are more important than anyone’s precious standards, namely human life.

This body remembers democracy.

The present we remember as the past is the future.

Me: Do not start the day crying. Do not start the day crying. Do not start the day crying.

When I wear a corset, I’m not bound like a woman, which I am not. I’m bound like a book, which I am becoming.

Oh, menfolk, jump into my life and save little old me said me never.

I just adore a beautiful font.

Creating is resisting. Create. Resist. Repeat.

Blessed are the newscasters for they shall usher in fascism.

The sanist diaries: Some of my closest friends are sanists.

The sanist diaries: Nothing brings folks together like sanism.

We remember. We are rendered.

I dreamed we had to wear vinyl records as hats.

I dreamed I used my thighs to choke a ten-foot-tall man who represented the patriarchy.

Thanks to inflation, it will now be more expensive to eat the rich.

In my dream last night, I invented yambushing, which is pretty much what it sounds like: ambushing people with yams. I was eight years old in the dream and had to fend off my bullies. They did not see the yambush coming.

I dreamed I made millions writing Mormon erotica.

𒆪𒋆

That translates as Kushim and is the first known record of a person in writing.

The largest known human coprolite is 1,200 years old. It’s 20 centimeters long and 5 centimeters wide and was discovered in 1972 in an ancient Viking settlement in York, England.

It’s weird how old some things are, like murder.

Tonight, a fellow writer asked why I write about Oklahoma and my family’s history there, as if writing about the past and the place that made me who I am is of no value. It’s 2025, and you live in Utah, he said. I write about the present, too. But poets have pasts, and those pasts matter. They inform the present and the future. We live in many worlds and many timelines. Not everything is now, though then becomes now when we breathe life back into it.

I just learned that some canaries were kept in cages with oxygen tanks so they could survive after warning miners about dangerous levels of carbon monoxide.

And this ink is a suture. And this paper is a body. And this poem is a prayer for healing written one stitch at a time.

Will Journavx make me feel like I’m still living in a democracy?

In this light, ink on paper looks like sutures in skin.

I have no words to meet this moment.