The lives of parallel lines are uneventful: no sudden twists or unexpected turns disturb their single track monotony. And yet they dream of non-Euclidian space where rules are bent and of that infinite horizon where, at last, they’ll coincide. Concentric circles, on the other hand have no such hyperbolic hope. They know their limitations. Destined to be solitary cranks, they circumlocate, make roundabout excuses and observe their fellows from a distance. They never socialise.

the bridge is singular it asserts its beauty as verisimilitude of form its presence is a provocation a displacement of the natural strung like a witness over incremental depths the tenants of this occupation suppose the iron ordinance of stasis a beauty that refuses to be held entirely bridging precipice to precipice a band of light over that which lies beneath (first | second)

notions of hydrography piers from the channel the object imbued with conditional phrases contextual meaning a hydrostatic balance if you will, are, of, but not consumed by the Kitsap peninsula 5979 feet minus 40 reciprocal inductions during the rise and fall of several feet in 4-5 seconds a balletic guise 47˚16’00” N coordinates once negating the placement of this perfect mechanism over a narrow but deep pathology (first)

This poem (and two others to be published in the coming days) are part of a growing sequence that is titled “No Iron Ring” and is making an analogous object out of the construction, edifice and ultimate destruction of the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. The ring functions as a symbol of engineering pride, fellowship and a constant reminder of the implications that engineers must encase human concerns into each of their designs. “No Iron Ring” is indicative of the author’s failure as an engineer, and henceforth my move into literature as a field of study. This poem along with others consists…

I am on the side of humanity and truth. I agree to be accountable to you Because I am a sucker for a grown-up: I forget adults do not exist. I have a safety deposit box where I confess my pretexts. Among them: I have known monsters without becoming monstrous. I have longed for peace and justice at all times. I have only nine lives. I am with the firm of Yours & Mine, and in the process of conducting a routine check, I’d like you to confirm – don’t give it all away? But how will the young Know…

Dark matter of my heart – you can bruise and bully, but still the impulse to take care rises like the universe that throws up its hands, and never brings them back down again. Their ascent speeds until fingers fly apart, manicured fireworks – and my heart, too, is reeling out in many universes: a field of flowers blooming in fast-forward, and the pollen blowing to France, and no replacing the eggshells of our unspoken words, and no end but some cosmic burnout. At last we’ll care too much, be overstretched, throw up our hands knowing full well our arms…