The sun is different in the tropics. Everything is bright colors and hard shadows. Before your eyes can even adjust to the light a bare-legged Jamaican jezebel is asking, "Are ya just gonna stand there and shoot tha breeze ( Read more... )

I try to keep an eye on my inner focus, but the road calls for my attention
So I alternate between my speedometer and my inner focus,
the occasional stop sign, the occasional sharp turn.

It’s like this big astral finger reaches down to scan these huge astral book pages in my memory archives and right when I found the paragraph I was looking for and re-read it, it changes, and I’m seeing it through these new eyes and I start to wonder if I’m even in the right place after all.

IS THIS YOUR GENTLE STATURE?
IS THIS YOUR OPPOSITION?
THE TINY PAPER WINDMILLS
COME TO A STOP FOR A MOMENT
AS A DOOR SHUTS SOMEWHERE.

The buildings have been stripped to the metal foundations and rise silhouetted against an orange sunset. He says, “Every Babylon we’ve ever erected has been like a mouthful of teeth. Filed to a point and jutting out of the ground like an oversized bear trap.” Even the trash has been swept completely out of the city, without the acres and acres of ( Read more... )

We dismiss myths as if we can actually afford to live in a world with no epic history, nothing awe-inspiring except our own personal magnitudes of violence and vision. This world really isn’t that old- even on a molecular level it’s unstable, static, intricate. We’re spinning and spinning and all the while being created- what gives us any reason to ( Read more... )

Studying atlases for hours, trying to decipher the shadings and colors to find underwater mountains and oceanic patterns. Memorizing tradewinds, active volcanoes and colder temperatures. Index finger traveling from specific latitudes to the map key. Using a brass ruler to calculate the scale so he could find the distance, in kilometers, from his ( Read more... )

We are the landmarks of our age ( Read more... )

WE'VE STAGED AN ATTACK
BUT OUR BACKYARD BUNKER
HAS BECOME A HOT BOX
OUR INTENTIONS GET LOST IN THIS HUMIDITY
SO WE ONLY WANDER AROUND
AFTER EACH OTHER
CARRYING SPEARS, LOOKING BEWILDERED
WE'RE BREATHING HEAVILY THROUGH THE GREEN,
CURSING THE WARM MARTINI AIR

I wish that I wore hemp necklaces bound & tied with sacks of grain that hungry children could unbraid & eat while I held out my neck and told them stories. Fruit juice would dribble down their chins and forearms until the updrafts painted their sticky skin with sand. With cool pulp on their pomegranate lips, the children experiment outside with ( Read more... )