March held me in warm breath and disbelief. It promised that life was calm now, the roaring sky finally taking a moment to yawn. March apologized that we were still waiting for some things. March reminded of the remedy of patience, of the blatant love in believing the future real.

March’s Mixed Tape holds in its overflowing breath softly spoken moments of love and wonderment even in death’s light (We’re Alive by Cavetown, Heart for Brains by Roar, Black Bear by Black Bear, Broken Record by Atlas), fist fights against the fear (uno by rex orange county, enemy by oliver Tree), and belting celebrations of the unknown (particles by yotam perel, pale machine by bo en, one little pill by brick + mortar, one foot boy by mika).

Everyone has an song or two that means the world to them, a memory that lingers in each note. I’m no exception to this, and have long thought that many of the songs that have spoken to me throughout the years have a certain sort of poetry to them. A few months ago, I hit a momentary wall with traditional work and therefore became very interested in blackout poetry. It was during this experimental phase that mixed tapes was born, a series of blackout poetry from the lyrics of songs that speak to the soul.

mixed tapes is an homage to the small-town artist, to the teenager inside of all of us wanting more and taking it without realizing the consequences. mixed tapes is running through the empty parking lot at midnight, it is smoking behind the barrier of the playground, it is slipping some love songs into your pocket. It is hoping to see you this weekend.

I hope that mixed tapes finds the teenager inside you. I hope it soundtracks your heart home.

Hammocked in Your Hay-Down Hair


It’s clear now, my baby,

drowning with anxious

actions of love; you make


look relevant.

If I knew, my baby,

what you go through,

birds outside would stop

making songs.

In my rusting death,

think about me, heart for brains,

living proof of hidden limp.

Hold me, I’m too scared

to look away. Was I crazy,

before the woods?

Thorns and branches,

massive claw and tooth,

the dirt deep cinnamon,

decades a bullet from the gun.

Inside your arms is a thought,

a happy ending, a promise kept.

I speak Heaven into a porcelain dish,

a metaphor used precisely to make it

more than it is.