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the trains still run

They never taught us more than how to make things. They did not explain how to take pictures, or write stories, or record songs when the walls are falling down. What should you paint when the sky is falling? And yet, they taught us all we needed to know. As I have begun to understand over and over again, all art is political. All freedom is freedom. The trains still run. The cameras can still be loaded with fresh rolls of film that smell of plastic and possibility. If there is a pothole, at some point it gets filled. Sometimes it just takes a hell of a long time to happen.

The sun rises. Children trundle around in the snow, laughing, falling down and getting back up again. Yes, the news is unthinkable. Yes, the headlines are poisonous enough to make you throw things out the window. But there is still dinner to cook, and why not make it delicious? Why not crack an egg, or laugh wildly at nothing in particular?

There was a night, about eight years ago when I was told that the militia w…

oh banjola (goodnight 2017)

girlfriend experience

no words

the daughters of time

this must go

on refrigerators

every other man

Heaven is a place (where nothing ever happens)

trespasses

where are the lovely strawberries

Not me, her

no one wears white

this is Monday

a peaceful protest

the immigrant and the exile

an anniversary

the man on the ladder

a scream, a howl

no answer (the melon seller)

Breathing the right air

the forbidden zone

underfoot (rare air)

on vacation (see you next week)

approaching the unknown

coming clean

babel

small change (exceptions)

cold nostalgia

best personal blogs
best personal blogs