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Tuesday, January 16th, 2018
Cuentista, son tus palabras
El idioma y nada más.
Cuentista, no hay idioma,
Se hace idioma al contar.
Al contar se hace el idioma,
Y al recordar las pasajes contadas
Se oye el relato que nunca
Se ha de volver a narrar.
Cuentista no hay idioma
Sino espuma sobre las aguas.
posted evening of January 16th, 2018: 1 response
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Sunday, January 14th, 2018
In the dream it was a sunny morning after a night of heavy rain. Everyone was nervy because of an ancient prophesy: The morning sun sparkling on the waters of River X (which had been dry for all of recorded time -- the river had a name but I've forgotten it) would portend the end of days. So we walked down to and along the bed of the river, at every waystation I was pointing out to my friends how it was dry, nothing to worry about. We passed a concrete embankment with a light rill of water running down it, the sunlight sparkling. Beyond that was an ocean, where none had been before; its vastness was dumbfounding. Thousands were gathered there, standing on the shore, gawking.
posted morning of January 14th, 2018: Respond
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Monday, January first, 2018
¡Felicidades al año nuevo, herman@s poetas!
posted evening of January first, 2018: Respond
➳ More posts about Projects
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Friday, October 27th, 2017
No debe ser marinero
quien quiere dejar rastro.
La estela de la barca
se ensancha y despacio
desaparece. Sin hacer ruido
golpea el remo
otra vez contra el agua.
posted evening of October 27th, 2017: 8 responses
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Pine branches like spokes
on a rimless wheel
posted afternoon of October 27th, 2017: Respond
➳ More posts about Pretty Pictures
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Tuesday, October 10th, 2017
Deep blues, and reds,
And pastel shades of gray and tan
Are the colours that line Meeker Street
posted afternoon of October 10th, 2017: Respond
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Monday, September 25th, 2017
Flesh and bones, I wear you like an overcoat.
Flesh and bones, you carry me around
like a favorite toy.
posted morning of September 25th, 2017: Respond
➳ More posts about Identification
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Tuesday, July 25th, 2017
The cool, heavy sun is mute: Apollo's
giddy, radiant youth
now past and gone.
The sky is cloudy. Daisy's
nervous growl
reminds you
you need to be somewhere
in an hour or two,
reminds you
it's Sunday.
posted evening of July 25th, 2017: Respond
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Wednesday, July 19th, 2017
Myriad the threads of sound, distinct, which woven together undergird
the forest's deep, majestic Silence-- the wind, the trickling water,
birds... distant traffic... angry fat guy yelling at his girlfriend on the
phone...
posted evening of July 19th, 2017: Respond
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Monday, July 10th, 2017
Insurance is a murrain, insurance
blunteth the needle in the maid’s hand
and stoppeth the spinner’s cunning. Pietro Lombardo
came not by insurance
Duccio came not by insurance
nor Pier della Francesca; Zuan Bellin’ not by insurance
nor was ‘La Calunnia’ painted.
posted evening of July 10th, 2017: Respond
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