Poetry
below are six collections of my poetry
ashprint is a study in residue. These are poems of grief, memory, and emotional architecture—where the speaker is less interested in telling the story than in standing inside its echo. Loss moves through the body, the archive, the unspoken. The voice is restrained but not cold. These poems don’t reach for resolution—they sit inside aftermath, listening. (18 pages)
echojack is where the digital is not just a backdrop—it’s the haunting. These poems navigate grief inside systems: algorithm, code, filtered memory. The voice is self-aware, glitched, occasionally lyrical, often disembodied. Identity flickers. Language breaks down. These poems don’t mourn the analog—they mourn what the analog used to mean. (24 pages)
halfknown is a record of the speaker unmoored. Myth dissolves, maps lie, belief systems glitch. These poems are spiritually disoriented, often wry, sometimes tender, always searching. The voice here is not trying to find answers—it’s trying to figure out how to keep moving without any. This is what happens after the compass breaks. (22 pages)
self/destruct is a collection of collapse: of identity, performance, and the systems built to hold them up. These poems circle self-construction, surveillance, and failure. The speaker here is fractured but aware—constantly performing and unraveling at the same time. What begins as confidence ends in recursion. What begins as truth ends in a glitch. (23 pages)
abysm catalogs the quiet corruptions of contemporary life—vices mistaken for virtues, instincts monetized until they rot. These poems speak in the language of the feed, the office, the curated meltdown. The voice is complicit, damaged, wide awake—watching the fire from inside the house. There’s no moral high ground here, just proximity to the burn. No salvation, no sermon—only the architecture of the abyss we keep calling progress. (17 pages)
error state moves through collapse from the inside out. These poems speak from within broken systems—political, judicial, economic, moral—where the failure isn’t a glitch but the design. The voice is lucid, exhausted, sometimes elegiac, sometimes defiant. There's no illusion of rescue here—only the clarity that comes when the mask slips. America, as-is. (13 pages)