Denver-based writer. Previously in New York to attend Pratt Institute and develop his artistry. With a self-described “violently pensive exploration of the lucid,” Maison tries to invoke an ethereal relation to the world through his work.
Where, and when did this bloom?
Poisonous bud of self-abhorrence. With a grotesque and chimerical flourishing. A sweet-nothing blown into your nose. Delicate sustenance: for the beautifully marred and...
You let reintroduced animosity sucker-punch you, wanting to like it,
But the hurt didn’t hurt the same. Why?
Why are you so angry?
Why are you so sad?
Your best friend is lip balm And the...
We are homesick and we
are already home. Soul searching is unnecessary
when you let yourself realize
you still have one. You are a revolution,
However noiseless and stilled,
You are a revolution. Sent...
Touching shoulders at a train station,
A habitat of travel that possessed an aura
that begged you to stay.
One judged another over the frivolous styles of
a person's essence.
of a creamy, alabaster
The bona fide, ineffably kind affection,
in which even silence is understood.
Dignified in our hushed solidarity.
Accompanied by impudent spectators’ comme...
firm in the fire
of an uncertain homestead.
This obstacle, an ache,
of never winning familiarity here:
In the dates of trial and unknown,
I happened upon you,