presented

Email me if you want prints, portraits or anything else at cajewell96 @ gmail.com.

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Daniel, grade 12

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Aidan, some years ago

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Old pic of Noah

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Milford, PA and Montague, NJ

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Francis in the New York City subway, ICONIC

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drawn up by your joy of ladling slurps- new juice- in the sun wringing fingers through your steps and breakfast peace signs- your I am about to leave and when you wait, to stay, that’s all, sticking onto apricot jam. you were whispered at last night- to some surprise your mind is not inside mine. feeling like living through nods of yours some reason that we will keep going. it’s sense you make or i imagine it, myself, sensing underlying movement i hear from words i said i’m wondering if you live alone if i don’t come home

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Some motions stopped into you, a relinquished moment with wildlife back home or missed glances at the nodes between branches on your favourite trees. Nothing wrung you out like holding dead things in your palms. Ripping yourself away to the cold outdoors did not give you wind to whisper answers over your skin. No milk drank gave you any muscle you wanted, each habit pulled let each step move firmer, and no hand- gradually tugging you back in a smooth ellipse, returning with placards of home-land dusty ground-cover, a ripped-up house to work under and old growth to strip- turned you over, ran its fingers over new wounds from rain or could tie your momentum down with no string. Mistakes of your blood found their way. No sudden revel of this world’s electricity can send you the connection to back home- you have no things to learn, in quick turns of maturation all light was shown out. Your loss is not love, it can dissolve in the cracks in your cultivation and lie down in your scattered debris.

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Too many times getting pregnant and falling asleep

Heard the rumour of the risk we live in, brought by blows you deal, light as angels in the last cough. Feeling feminine wrought iron and your curtailed knife under my spit, sipped licks off your finger trick. Never told that some rough-skinned palms and picked-off marks in sweat and stains were not just something to smell but worn inside, buckling like a tightened-off choke on supple senses. Writhed around before walling us off, giving turns to follow maps on as if actions we take could lead us somewhere. How sallys and slurpees in middle school bathrooms only got halfway in explaining our depth like torn-up-magazine injuries.

Gave you a few drips and fell asleep at your door. Nothing sat up in the morning except you in your skirt, me in the open-door waterworks slipping us together and then swallowing our waves apart, taxiing love on the cusp of new blood with only cold ground to sleep on in the seat of your burn-rug. If you’re looking out to find out then all that you’ve seen is me and my nothingness will have you taken over too, loose receipts of your hurricane brought to my winter court like scenes from a school play. Other side of my membrane as a push to my stop. Held by scalded body of parts that tell no stories and a couple lacklustre charms welded into your skin, finding luck like a rock you threw back in.

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Taken with Yael’s camera, my favourite Minolta x-700

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Going places with Noah

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in Badlands National Park, South Dakota, 2016

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Pics from the disposable camera on the drive from Toronto to Vancouver

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I’ve been trying to figure out what these are, and I’m pretty sure it’s liquiding with lighted fingers

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Photos I took in high school with a cool camera that broke since then