me dicen que soy plaga invasora en esto yo no creo ¿quién me trajo a las afueras de mi tierra y me abandonó en las profundas de me ser? pues está roto el barco de mi reencarnación la crisálida no puedo volver— no puedo y me dicen invasora; que tuviera alas que me lleven al …
noc. i
Prelude "Behold, the saviors of our kingdom!" A thunder of applause ripped through the cerulean sky, banging against the gates of heaven as the men and women and children of Aryaedn crowded below the wooden platform, cheering and throwing flowers even as the kings' guards prodded them back. A small child, hair matted and dirty …
I-20
Cigar smoke, static from Atlanta, pollen; just blowing in the wind. on the road to Duluth, 1:30pm.
a quandary of memory
There is a Darwish poem about a place that becomes itself retrospectively, quietly where its image, its likeness in memory is stronger than the place itself. Dialectics, maybe a penchant for nostalgia but then, aren't myths our interpretation of history? Home isn't a landline the ocean wasn't blue, a gist is more than the sum …
sadness and sorrow
I contend with this heavy sorrow this unrepentant thief of mine which rolls in sea-like billows upon the shores of sacred mind; it devours the threads of reason embittered by trifles and cursed lies and mocks the grief of happier days for which my soul would pine; so, I vagabond through ennui and despair to …
Nina Simone
I wish I could be like a bird in the sky how sweet it would be if I found I could fly— I'd soar to the sun and look down at the sea; Then I'd sing 'cause I know how it feels to be free! I Wish I Knew (How it Feels to be Free)
wotd. i
Prelude The night was pitch black, so dark that it seemed as if trying to seep into the candlelit room through the window, bleeding from behind the heavy crimson drapes to eat away at the edges of the velvet. That was the first sight that came into view, blinked into focus by a woman who …
a writer’s desk
A page barren of thought I could but hardly say, the lantern's wick has hardened the crowd is gone away shivering leaflets fallen on frozen beds of hay ideas congealed in bottled ink I stand before the fray— of cold, plagerized pages in 21st century gray of renditions and other nonsense that shall never see …
Abdulrazak Gurnah
I used to love the big rains with a dread I could not explain even to myself; the ancient light, the water logged land about to slide off the edge of the world, the croaking of beasts in the shadows. Gravel Heart
january 1st, 2024
Years ago, I stumbled across a blog called Nostalgia on 9th Avenue. Back then, I was attempting the quite impossible task of teaching myself Japanese, and while it was admirable, painting the sweaty attrition of my summer days with the black strokes of kanji, orderly, tilted just so, I learned barely a fraction of the …
The-Bleu-Bivouac 