Traffic hand flashed
I stepped to the street.
Just up where the pavement kisses concrete.
In seconds, a crowd
Had formed at my back
And the street was a blur
As the traffic attacked.
Yellow, and black.
And there she was.
In the crowd, at the crossing,
On opposite . . .
A 100-word poem.
Mildred sat alone in the woods.
Quiet. Patient. Waiting.
It was the same spot as yesterday.
And days before that.
In fact, Mildred had been coming here for six years now.
She was always here when the sun was high, and stayed until it started low.
Then she headed home for an evening with the family.
A 100-word poem.
I can hear the river through the trees.
Miller’s Wood. Near the clearing. The village. The family.
Can’t move my head. My arms. Anything.
Can’t feel. How long have I been here?
Where are the others? Anna? Charley? Miss Kearns?
They were right behind me.
Before he met us.
Before it all went black.
Having consulted with digital agencies that retrofitted UX teams, I've often found myself selling UX elements such as content strategy and information architecture to designers, writers, creative directors, and account folks. The ramble below is a speech I wrote for an internal meeting that didn't happen. Figured somebody should read . . .
A Work Poem
Whether you're rebuilding a site or app experience, plotting social interaction for your brand, or governing the architecture of a global intranet, any content strategy or information architecture project should start with the (sometimes dreaded but always enlightening) inventory and audit. This bittersweet ritual involves the detailed . . .
a UX beat poem
Zip, zoom, zam went the carousel, like day to night and light again. There’s me, basement bent over shining screens, weaving my way through endless seas of atomic code, dead loads, and content nodes, that low-lit room wallpapered with Post-Its, each love note a compassionate cog in the big, bellowing brand machine. Napkin sketches of intent . . .
For my first Medium post, I wanted to do something I’d never done before: Write a rap. True to my lyfe. Complete with bravado.
*yes, kids, this was written back when you needed an invite to publish on Medium.
Cancel my lobotomy
I got a Medium invite, telephony
I call my Mom but she don't know just what it means
To be a spark in the big fire raging, paging, engaging
I kick the key to the cursor, but not for me . . .