I carry Tarkovsky’s ear in my pocket, still listening to the rain of Stalker, while the rest of his body evaporates in memory like a priest who lost his faith but not his habit. I carry Wong Kar-wai’s eyelids in my chest, always late, always oblique, always chewing time like someone chewing electric hydrangeas. And […]

And you chew on my hand,skin and bone,like a mangy dogstill believingin one last caress. You chew on my hand,thirsty for touch,for a point of focus,for the image that loopslike a tired mirror:you chewing on my hand. My hand that strokes your mouth,even thoughneverthelessthe gesture seems to comefrom a place older than gesture,a place where […]

An ancient chant in seven impossible colors The Red Verse. The Spin of Origins. O Grump of Tonal Misalignment,you who speak in broken kettles and cosmic lint,teach us the first color of the rainbow:the red of washing‑machine war,the red of socks that vanish into the underworld,the red of pigs who prophesy in detergent foam. The […]

His Ontology: A Being Made of MisfiresTonal Grump is not a creature.He is a glitch in metaphysics, a pocket of the universe where meaning goes to molt. He is the patron of: misaligned metaphors,verbs that refuse to conjugate,nouns that defect from their definitions,sentences that collapse under their own humidity. He is the cosmic reminder that […]

my self split.myself spilt.selfish spill.cell‑fish still. I sat breaking patterns again,as if the cracks could learn my name,as if the loneliness could finally swallow itselfand leave me unmade. did I, did I, did I?the echo that refuses to die. did I, did I, did I?until the syllables bruise,until the mouth forgets its purposeand becomes only […]