Hey Oka

A first collection of versified vignettes, carvings and doodles, traced by a peculiar pilgrim. Each lettered abstraction flies in the face of human-ness, having haunted wooden seraphs and hobnobbed with spectral sprites.
Here are words coming together in piles, like dirty laundry. They've assembled themselves, aided, but little, by an awkward wrist and an anagogic tellurian eye. They have, by design, no design. They are as concrete as they are vague.

They offer a glimpse past the ordinary, behind the veiled strings that wove hard curtains between this rat race and the sure asylum of our soul. These are naked poems. Poetic ramblings that are comfortable in their own skin, enough to invite you to witness their abandon. They are measures that swing in no particular direction. At least not until you plant yourself within them; not until they push you off the ground, where you wake, spying a mirror of your own making.