Ash is a multi-disciplinary artist exploring metaphysics and mysticism through land-based installations and illustrated manuscripts.

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Writing


Poetry | Personal Essays | Short Stories


Slow Molting


When you watch me sweep the floors, does the dream end or does it begin?

Or will we finally say something true like, “I am so happy to be in pleasure with you in this dying body.” 

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Troves


In the morning I walk
the shore covered
with shells,
some more broken
than others.

They arrive in troves-
after traveling long distances.

They arrive as if on holy pilgrimage,
as if with a prayer in their throats,
as if with a purpose.

They arrive-
after being in some perfect form for so long,
they arrive to return-
to be broken down again,
to become material.

To return to the mass
which minds the exact shape
of the place where others
will arrive tomorrow.





Capital G


I must be careful. I must be perfect, I thought, as I looked at the boys seated in the desks in front of me.

The plaid kilts reminded me that I should never tell anyone about my careful and perfect plan for Her.

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Takeout and the Red Door


I wonder if it’s a premonition. I wonder if I shouldn’t stop falling in love and moving in with people until it happens. 

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Dog with a bone

Sitting in the yard
a dog with a bone
she has drained
all of the marrow-
from the tectonic, calcium
plates, now brittle.


And the dog,
still narrows
her eyes, lowering
herself over the past,
guarding it with
her feverish growl as if
the promise of
more of what was
were a truth.







Fool me twice, shame on me.



I’ve been fooled
by so many
people’s hair.








Crow


Even when the people are asleep
the massive dance goes on.

Do you wish to hear it-
the tongue of the crows
who gather daily in ceremony,
discussing at length- the Otherworld?

More than to listen, but
to believe them.

To
know that they mind
the turning wheels
of giving and grieving, in this
cemetery.

Do you wish to taste it-
how the earth offers herselfto you?

How she offers you as well?

How you ripen and rot,
along with all fruiting bodies,
daily, lunarly, annually, and finally?

How small and vital.

Love was a Proxy of Possessive Pronouns Swirling in a Mobius Loop of Vacant Self-Projection 



I was someone’s idea of home

as a proxy for aliveness

I was someone’s devil incarnate

as a proxy for aliveness

I was someone’s example of goodness

as a proxy for aliveness


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Gaze


Muse existing is the object
(she)

Object in space is form
(soul and senses via the body)

Form contains function
(feeling and doing / speaking and listening)

Function is a catalyst
(in having the ability to)

Catalyst is a change
(to cause an effect)

Change proves time
(once this, now this, so there)

Time lives in observation
(look, a thing in motion)

Observation becoming holy
(oh, the body is sacred)

Sacred is the Gaze 
(see, a holy thing in motion)

Gaze cast upon a Muse  
(seeing as in uncovering)  

Muse becomes aware
(I am being seen)

Awareness finds The Gazer
(I see you seeing me)

The Gazer becomes the object
(soul and senses via the body)

Object is the Muse existing
(she)





Sandwich Queen


We live together in Trastevere. I don’t make any friends at school. I don’t recognize myself enough to be introduced. To say my own name. To say “I am...” anything.

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Our River

Gathering on the front porch
with its paint peelingaged in the hot sun
we breathe in

One of us is cooking
something savory and deep
and the pleasant cat
curls itself at my feet

while I am sipping something
sweet and strong
(like all of us)

One of us is hanging linens on the line
One of us is floating naked in the river
One of us is upstairs making love
One of us is holding a baby on their hip
One of us is laughing
One of us is consoling
One of us is being consoled

In the evening we play music and
All of us dance
and in the morning
All of us are gathering blankets, books, and baskets of fruit for another day spent at the banks of our river