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 …
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 …
mono no aware
Tower of Babel, ziggurat skyscraper whatever we elect to name them industrial arms of Gaia its amazing still, though— i much prefer the delible, deciduous leaves crunch and blow regrow i write poems in the water in Dallas park i sit and watch the traffic go. as much as I love the permanence of monuments, …
from the airplane
Peering through a crack in the sky, from a seat on AA2658, the enso etched by the steady hand of Amaterasu my eyes are blinded— burning tundra, mountains of lava and dust visages of red thunder rumbling soveign across the clouds. written the last time I saw my sister.
The-Bleu-Bivouac 