A bag of snakes, the hole inside / me.

I was born March 24th, the same day as Harry Houdini, so my family used to take annual trips to the Harry Houdini Museum in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

Alright fine: let’s play Chubby Bunny / naked in the sprinklers, I said.

But for me, Earl’s short poems (sometimes, I’m willing to concede, laid over monotonous beats) are speculative and visionary. They map a modern mind, short in attention, fighting to be audible above our cyber industrial reality—its alienating information storm of iPhone notifications. They take us beyond the day’s meaning-emptied habitual speech.

On an external hard drive stored in a closet somewhere at home, I have a photo from the first concert I set up, a moment captured on a roll of film and later scanned and sent via email.

The last time I was here I was really in here. I have been here. I know that I have been here. These people are in my home and they are watching my TV.

Let me tell you, Lil—I’m here to be borne down on.

But we arrive to find it’s been co-opted by a cocktail bar. / The Moss wants to bounce but we’re already here.

to bend over whenever. This belief reaches / quietly into their bone marrow.

super impose me neon, berry-tinged / fingertips left smudges across everything I touched.

nother time, a couple pressed me to / forgive my family, they said all the best art draws from love, not anger / but I barely heard them over the Frank Ocean song