On the underrated art form.

Every Wednesday, shed their business suits and don purple polyester tracksuits that crackle when they move.

The dads will sing along to Ashanti too, in a high, thin countertenor, near enough to the notes to feel their resonance across time.

His laugh was the loudest, the hardest sound coming out as a wheeze at the end.

We toppled out the door, catching ourselves as we spilled into a buzz of neon and tires spitting rain.

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO STOP HAUNTING MY BODY.

On shifting frequencies.

There teeth are coins for passage and your tongue is taken as a savoury.

You’re both silent until he says, I feel stupid and contagious.

A few more plays and I’m pretty sure we accomplish a mind transferral, or a body swap.

Even the most delicate goats gnaw metal with bright eyes.

It was shaping up to be a Paul spring—quixotically homicidal; cottagecore insanity.

He’s dreaming of beating his manager up and walking out with cash in his hands. A spaceship has to be bought, after all.

On legacy (and saying goodbye to Steve Albini).

The moon is here somewhere, we think (or maybe we say it out loud). We cut our fingers searching. 

How long now have I kept you here – when did it become me keeping you?

Turning the crusty old pool rule into a surf-guitar song.

You were still crying while we joined the crimson smear of traffic. My hands felt raw from the applause.

I walked up behind you in the crowd and, in your ear, like a heartbeat, spilled everything out.

Dream big, fail. Dream big, fail again and again and again. Then stop dreaming.