HeyJaredThe Soul of Rob
For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of, and so too, the hand types.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 7
- Latest publication
- Sep 5, 2026
- Audience
- Checking…
- Earliest in this view
- Jul 9, 2026
Latest issues
Nat Geo Bonez [2] (opens the original)
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Long coming follow up to the last time I poked through a Nat Geo for some erasure poems. I found myself drawn less to monkeys and wildlife and more to the trials of lonesome roads, harsh winters, and air travel this time around. A strange change of pace, but I liked it. <sour
A Black Cat Crossed (opens the original)
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Another poem inspired by my man CORTEZ during his last weekly livestream — going down every Monday — in which he finishes an original poem in real time. A more thoughtful intro to CORTEZ can be found here<
Chasing Chasing Red (opens the original)
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For the grossly unaware, my man has a weekly livestream every Monday in which he starts and finishes an original poem. As he describes it, it’s like shitting on camera with a live audience. And much like shitting, the process isn’t always smooth — but we sit until the job is done! And so, he does; and so, he does. It’s a good watch, and one that’s inspired me to write in that very hour. While he wrestled the world inside into this external one
This is Love ~ (opens the original)
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From a Stream Named Strava is a ritual I’m building around running. In many ways, the rituals I once had for running and writing had withered away. What I once called practice turned into projects. What used to be for now was suddenly for good. And it was pleasant, the strength of my body, the persistence of effort. And then it was brutal, for when more of me was needed, I could not afford myself. I looked at my practice then I looked at my projects, and I found them no different. Why can’t I go
Garden Song (opens the original)
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Poetry and song committed to the love one fosters in the garden, stated best by Bly:There is death but there is also this closeness…Lantanas wept in white Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedLike frozen stars whose arms became tendrils in the emptiness of space it called to me creaking this small temple of bones that glowed against the black soil nearly blown apart by the wind do you remember my petals or the flowers I held in
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