My mother was a pretty girl with a hot temper. Her classmates nicknamed her the Korean Doris Day. They didn’t know behind that perky nose and heart-shaped face was an open palm on a hair trigger. A black-and-white photo of her trendy bob cut and fresh complexion reveal youth in bloom. Her coy, closed-lip smile gives the impression someone told her a joke and she’s holding in a laugh.
Read MoreMy drawings are based on original text from notebooks I have kept over the years. I am interested in exploring the limitations and elegance of formal language. The words are often altered beyond legibility, but the visual rhythms we associate with reading and understanding what is written…
Read MoreWe sit in the back of a black car. New mouth. Her first time sucking the face of “another woman.” She can’t feel my gender. We don’t know each other long enough or well enough and I can’t simplify queer theory fast enough. There isn’t time…
Read MoreA woman wrote me an email.
She told me to fuck off.
Called me a hypocrite for saying I loved trees, because I had too many books.
The wall was all she needed and words like needed were too dangerous to mess around with. She had to watch it. Do not use that word again, she told herself, pressing her fingernails into the palm of her hands. Could she live her whole life leaning against a wall?
Read MoreThere is a shortage of people who teach children.
There is a shortage of people to fight fires in Los Angeles.
There is a shortage of attention spans.
