Language has a way of skirting around in the margins. These margins collide with concepts, where the inner worm bashes against the outer skin of self, brushing against the ridges of intertextuality. Sometimes I feel like I’m constructing a system of art, other times I feel like I’m coughing up random words. Both cut into me and break out of me. This is a place of margins.



5 Comments on “About

  1. I at times feel as if my words are so ancient no one understands what I am saying, including myself. But I always remind myself, I can not be the only one in the world who talks, writes, or communicates as I do. How else would I have learned to do that?


  2. Well, you certainly have a poet’s soul. I had to butcher the English language to make my poems rhyme, so I’m a bit envious. Looking forward to future posts.


  3. Thanks so much. I guess butchering could be considered an art form. You know, spare ribs, pot roast, fish fillet. Lol. Good luck with slicing the fat off your “hads”.


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