Category: 2026

blind corners

or, you definitely do not need to vomit in the punch bowl like that Kirsten Dunst movie thanks

A poem.

when he thinks of the top
ten-percent of his thoughts,
beyond getting high,

beyond getting off,

beyond suppressing the weirdo’s muck,
he probably considers what he’s given away
over and above a fuck.


and no, he’s not talking about his virginity 
but stuff.


just,
things.
the kind he can never get back sort of stuff.

even though he still buys it three times over sort of
stuff.
marvel at the kind-of-a-one collection nobody
wanted, cared for, or asked about stuff.
it’s embarrassing to even bring up.
the things and the stuff.


the same for acquaintances he’s accidentally
blown pot smoke in the
faces of

with their coming around blind corners.
if it really meant something then it wouldn’t have sundered.

//wd 5.14.2026

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a flotilla of teenaged seagulls

chasing a bald eagle away from a fry

A poem.

when life’s going a little too Disney,

there’s always something there to
fuck it up completely.
navigating that storm makes
me take stock
of what i could possibly be paying penance for


or karmic retribution

or shitty luck

but mostly i blame divine justice –
you know the kind: the overfed,
bearded White guy in a smock staring back in the mornings
through the dinge of acne glazing

and not some omniscient force.
nurture can be nature at its worst.

//wd 4.30.2026

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A&B Sound, Boxing Day ’96

A poem.

a bald spot,
some weight –
still the same.


same-ish.
enough to have a moment in line.

enough to actually watch the clip show
they usually skip from season twenty-one
as their memory rewinds.
they’re dodging peripherals from behind:
a behind they once knew better blind

but they don’t really want to catch up
if it is,

nor they them
they’re assuming,
after the decision both were ruminating:
that neither wanted to wipe the other
in either’s autumn monogamy.

oh hey, what’s changed?
a bald spot,
some weight,

overall still the same.

//wd 4.27.2026

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400 Words on: Wuthering Heights (2026)

or, “Rated X for Pervasive Ankle”:
A spoiler-free mini movie review.

1.5 out of 5

Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights” (aka. WH) is a thesis paper just waiting for a would-be advertising graduate.

Had Warner’s marketing team been forthright and sold it for what it is – a chamber piece in the vein of 2017’s “My Cousin Rachel” – I think I would have appreciated Fennell’s flourishes more, however awkwardly they abet a tame, period-correct adaptation of the Brontë novel.

Instead, WH was hustled as a Ken Russell-esque decent into debauchery, with an eye-catching trailer that spoke to the sensibilities of someone raised on the titillation of late-night cable erotica. People suck their dirty 18th century fingers, with Margot Robbie appearing to return to her bratty-nutjob roots. ‘Come Undone’, tempts the poster. Yes, please!

Expectations that stratospheric are unsustainable. While WH is as professional a product as an episode of “Bridgerton”, it lacks consistent, distinguishing texture: whether that be with more visual depictions of sexuality; singer Charli XCX’s anachronistic pop we only hear a couple of times to orchestrate montages; or the stop-motion hairwork titles, seen once & never again.

[cont’d]

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tomatoes, potatoes

A poem.

television permits us its
unassailable truths
as escapism:

generic hygienic,
purposeless youth
earn first-meets and whole Fridays with
ten-star heartbreaks in waiting –
despite the real world red flags that
demoing all your breakfast doth bring –


and they look into their eyes as the whales coo

and a fight ensues,
because each assumes what side of the tracks
the other derives,
as often occurs at the end of act two


and he’s home
middle-aging
with the before-bed Pringles in his hand ruminating,
“when was the last time that ever happened to me?”

the good parts, he means,
forgetting or not acknowledging what’s already been.

//wd 4.2.2026

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