He plucked at the thread of her,
The blue and the red of it;
The wire wound throughout him
Like a faint sinew
Holding all the parts of him together.
It was knotted into him:
Bound around nerves and dendrites,
Coiled through his fingers and toes;
It colored his vision a vivid hue of wonder;
Was so woven into his heart
It couldn't expand,
Contract,
Without sounding out her name.
Really, shouldn't there always be more dancing?
Like the sky
His hands covered her
Cheesecake is the breakfast of champions.
Just not of champions who do any kind of vigorous activity in the field of their championing.
To understand ourselves as appetite. To give over to the dark, hungry parts of our brain as it scrambles over the filters of our intellect, clawing through our senses to the outside world.
To give over to the slavering desire to escape ideas and abstraction, to touch, taste, FEEL the world as though grabbing a live wire and drawing directly on the sensual current.
Here there be monsters.
Head bent low, bowing for prayer,
Trembling, shivering
with ecstasy as the spirit moved him,
As earth's respiration
filled him with motion and wonder,
Penning an ode to the sun and the sky,
To the light and the love,
To the world that embraced him.
“Alongside the already heated debate over the place of Muslim, African and Asian immigrants in European societies, the debate about the Roma could call into question one of the basic tenets of the European Union: the rights of its 500 million citizens to cross internal borders.” - The New York TImes, Dispute Grows Over France’s Removal of Roma Camps
Interesting how when the Western European countries wanted to roam the world availing themselves of whatever resources or opportunities could be found, it was considered a golden age of civilization, but as the scions of empire find their way back to our door steps, sans plagues, and swords, and guns, mind you, it’s some kind of unholy invasion.
The shape of things to come:future moments looming over the horizon like ghostly monoliths condensing from strange chronal mists. Dangerous forms enticing, moving through raw open gates, pouring shards of light into ocular stigmata, into the pulsing, blinking grey of untested hope.
“We are the people of the civil rights movement. We are the ones that must stand for civil and equal rights, justice, equal justice. Not special justice, not social justice. We are the inheritors and protectors of the civil rights movement. They are perverting it.” - Glenn Beck as quoted in The New York Times
How does one even respond to the idea that Glenn Beck is a protector of the civil rights movement? Laughter? Tears?
“Equal justice” in Mr. Beck’s context would seem to indicate a belief that justice is a stand alone commodity whose value should be determined by market forces, not a facet of human interaction where suffering is caused and can be alleviated, and if justice is a product of social interaction, then the idea that social justice is not something we should be working towards is, to me, absurd.
Silent too long -
Wrecked by implausible pause.
Too long . . .
Then gap becomes goal.
Unfilled space rotates on temporal axes
And, like an Esher drawing,
Agonist becomes antagonist.
The warmth, the heat, the light.
The broken karma,
The ruptured surface,
The abrupt transitions;
The casual, flaccid attempts at forgiveness;
The tension of abstracted rage,
A mild soporific;
The synthetic overture,
The formal, empty reply.
Engagement as a source of energy,
An input,
Becomes a gaping maw,
Gulping at even stray efforts,
Feeding off impotent attempts
To relate something to
Nothing