Feather duster. Birdcage made of whispers. Tail of a black cat. I’m a child running With open scissors. My eyes are bandaged. You are a heart pounding In a dark forest. The shriek from the Ferris wheel. That’s it, bruja With arms akimbo Stamping your foot. Night at the fair. Woodwind band. Two blind pickpockets in the crowd.
Walkers are “practitioners of the city,” for the city is made to be walked. A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities. Just as language limits what can be said, architecture limits where one can walk, but the walker invents other ways to go.—Rebecca Solnit,
January is a day shy of leaving. And yet this served as the first entry for this year. I realized that I actually started this journal on New Year’s Eve 2012 with a list of goals I desired to achieve before the year ended. I achieved some. Others remained as goals. This very entry can be taken as a sign that my undiaried, unwritten—perhaps
Looking for a date this Valentine’s? You might find him/her during our poetry reading. Bring and perform your poem/balak and be heard. Join us on February 9th, 7:30 PM, at La Belle Aurore Bookshop, Junquera Branch. Because love is funny, laughable, lovely, sad, unfortunate, frustrating, short, long. Because love leaves some welts. Because love welts. 🙂