February 2010
gentle Sunday.
January 2010
Anywhere we run (you run before us)
I struggle most with leaving my mother and father behind, leaching on them from afar. My dad would spew into a lecture should he ever read this, one about the duty of a parents et cetera, but really - why do we wander from whom we love most? Even worse, the hunt for finding the equivalent outside of the bond back home seems not unlikely, but foolish. It took me 21 years and eight hundred miles to...
“This is the story of how we begin to remember.
This is the powerful pulsing of...”
– Under African Skies.
25
Every thing emaciated
I am living syncopated
Can you hear my monsters call?
I can hear my monsters call.
Even in my older levels
I am striving to dishevel
I am waiting on the heart
I am writing from the heart.
We're in love.
We’re in love.
We’re in lust.
We’re all done.
jj - My Way
1. Swedish pop chicks love Lil’...
DeMarcus Jamar Wo- fuck, Moms. Can’t even get through my name without these niggas puttin me in a graffiti-painted neighborhood with hoop dream blacktops and cocaine hustlin’ corners. They already know my father wasn’t around; I couldn’t tell you what that niggas face looks like.
DeMarcus Jamar Woods. You already know the story of segregation. I am the mother fuckin byproduct of what happened...
A funny misconception of love is that it is the only thing that is yours which must be brought to you by someone else.
Abroad.
She goes back to Argentina and basks in their fermented grape juices, dacing with monosyllabic men that have no idea what she is saying when she tries to make small talk to excuse her American rhythm. One in particular offers an extended palm as they exit, arm and arm down a cobblestone street that she’d otherwise deem dangerous (Daddy would kill her if he knew). The two stay silent after a failed...
En Hand I Himlem
A hand in heaven.
Brand new.
I’m me.
Slow down.
Who the fuck are you-Ooo?
Low Rising
There’s no further for us to fall on our own.
I wanna sit ya down and talk about everything.
Get Realsies
I am a cynic. I imagine that bothers you.
O, God of Concept
have you forsaken or forgot us?
There is no other time then now, sir
To tell me of my lover’s life,
For the ambiguity you use to speak
Defies a lover’s right.
My Betrothed marched to Edinburgh,
He wrote of nerve and gut and glory,
And while I am found in prayer and age,
Is he but Bannockburn’s quarry?
Has he fallen slain, sir?
‘Cause the letters come no more
And without a speeded answer, sir
I will come looking fast...
Ecclesiastes 3:1
holding pillows like theyre people,
what of this wretched hollow?
what of this season’s tide?
i grow my skin each winter
and shed it all come spring.
I thought of a friend in fret as I laid in bed last night.
I’d love for you to magically appear and immerse ourselves in a game, and in a silence sprung from that game, chess or likewise, regarding the problems you face as a farce until I subtly trade your wine for chocolate milk while you tear up under blankets, where we’d lay parallel and horizontal, straddling the board of abandoned kings and...
I don’t think “the way I approach things,” or the way any creative approaches things, is as conscious as an interviewer makes it out to be, really. I just think I’ve developed a way to live. I dunno, there’s always an opportunity to look at stuff differently, no matter how mundane or repetitive a situation may be. For example, I can’t work at a beach, or a pool, or a coffee shop because I am...
Stephanie sits behind a door recently closed, one approached with tip-toes and shut with the greatest of care and courage. Her two year husband sleeps in the room down the hall, oblivious of her insomnia or unhappiness, a trait of which she is perceptive, and one that beats the drum of her frustration with greater force, not allowing the silence of sleepiness to settle upon this weekday midnight....
“You know, you keep going with that trend, you could end up in a rut, bud. And I’ve been in those places, I’m tellin’ ya. It’s the pits,” the father says to his son over the phone, his voice baritone and fading in bravado as the advice slips, weary of his son’s short patience.
The man had answered the late night phone call from the home town in which he grew up, but not without debate. Who would...
Smoking cigarettes with the ghost of Satchel Paige
(Let it out, love)
America, what’s it like to rust?
We’ve got crosses on our eyes.
fucking travesty. →
get it, Ant.
mmmmhmmmm. →
The Foundation Is Set, No Matter The Cracks
Walking through the door in typical American business attire, I call through the entrance hall of my first home; not my parents, not a college apartment, not a city loft; my three story home with bluish-gray siding, tall and thin. The flat, short driveway is lined with grass and a side yard on its outside and a red brick wall along its left, one that serves as the foundation to the steep steps...
Hiding in Omniscience
The apprehension that arrives with her is otherwise inexperienced. Michael shakes faintly at the sight of Celia, the young French girl with whom he attends college.
She is an apparition to the boy, nervous and somehow sweating without perspiration as he enters the hallway where she sits with her circle of American friends, eighteen and nineteen year old girls who know nothing of Avignon or...
“I’ve been living my life, okay? I’ve been in good relationships and...”
– Polly Prince
Jump That Moon
how could it be wrong now?
No more crying, there.
We are going to see the King.
Hallelujah, hallelujah.
We are going to see the King.
“When I am king you will be first against the wall.”
“I go forward, you go backward, and somewhere we will meet.”
“For a minute there, I lost myself.”
