I've been asked to give a little introduction of myself and what I write.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I am a bag of meat adrift on a casually moving river of vocabulary, propelled by stars and sustained, floating, facedown, by the digital possibility.
ABOUT THE WORK
When the tides are high, words spill out over the causeways, sending houses floating down the interstate, necessitating kayaks to rescue the stubborn who cling to roof lines and refused to leave even in the fact of all, all, all that nonfiction. The words create eddies over the asphalt, drown trees with too much greenery, create stagnant pools that don't drain for days and leave watermarks on all of the drywall. Small children and uneducated people get cholera and unexplained illnesses from playing in places, seemingly harmless on their tidal bright surfaces, where words have mixed with feces and dead things and the overflow of sewers. It takes weeks for the words to recede, to return to their usual places. They change everything. Returning home, people find minor pools of phrases trapped in vessels they didn't know could hold meaning: coffee cups inside of cabinets, a divot in the tile of the bathroom floor, the inside of a photo frame just beneath the lip of glass. Carpets are steam-cleaned only to still smell like the past. It's pervasive and subtle, they say, like being referenced to things you don't remember having said. People move away because of these words. Homes are never the same. Mold grows afterwards in the places where it was, and it sounds like discordant syllables all jangled together, and it afflicts the people who buy the house from the previous tenants thinking that they're getting a hell of a deal on a fixer-upper but don't realize that the space between the studs is fetid and blooming and they lie in their beds at night, throats raw and eyes red watery and wonder why, why, why they can't quite seem to catch their breath.