I am writing in the grip of a feeling, something like a long White man standing there. Or like a Brown boy’s rage whose tongue laps up the remaining gossip. I am here. I might be Maria, but less virginal. I might be her, with the language rolling into a one, two, four.
What is smoke, anyway, and for how long?
I’ve been invited to tea. I've been remade. A trek I can’t make out and can’t ask her to make; pilgrimage-like.
What is wrong with my language these days? Is it really that surreal?
I cannot drive. Don't know how. The ocean doesn’t make me nauseate. I don’t like the way I am writing. Risky moves of outsiders. A barista talks and although I have no time, technically speaking, I sip Earl Grey.
What is it about the word stoicism?
It’s hard for me to find the romance, not that I ever have, but I’ve been looking…
I no longer love like I used to, or believe. I have a CD to deliver and songs to dance to with a young man. A person, but little. There are songs about love on that CD and I wonder, is this a wrong choice? Should it help to build the blinding narrative? I will be there to offer up difference, to deconstruct.
God, has the modernism finally left me?
1 comments:
i love the new look of the blog and i love that you are writing again, even if u aren't reading.
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