Tuesday, September 02, 2014
I saw a raging monster enjoy every second of it.
I saw the fire come out of the barrel.
Then a demolished youth underneath atomic street lamps.
I could see so vividly a blood curdling tragedy
unfolding in an ocean of pain.
Let's not joke.
No one prayed gospel for him.
He was all alone along the dirty boulevard.
There was barely room for me.
Adapted from the words of Dorian Johnson, 22, witness to the shooting of Michael Brown, Ferguson, Missouri
Image: Composite Roger Ballen & kn.
Monday, September 01, 2014
"The range of the human mind, the scale and depth of the metaphors the mind is capable of manufacturing as it grapples with the universe, stand in stunning contrast to the belief that there is only one reality, which is man's, or worse, that only one culture among the many on earth possesses the truth.
To allow mystery, which is to say to yourself, "There could be more, there could be things we don't understand," is not to damn knowledge. It is to take a wider view. It is to permit yourself an extraordinary freedom: someone else does not have to be wrong in order that you may be right."
- Barry López
this scarecrow is you
in your old clothes
it looks like you—
a no–thanks–floating there--
the fence: scarecrow’s
stage and unable to burn,
skin stretched under
limp sleeves and angels
don't breathe, forget
what they came for—
no longer able to
without a magnifying glass,
dissipating in his dream
the scarecrow rocks
with no real office,
in the field of
his powerless life
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
When I read poetry, I want to experience a fierce loosening of thoughts. I read poetry because I want to move away from the material world and to find epiphany. I read poetry for language pleasure. I read poetry because I am angry at generic and literal forms of interpretation. I read poetry to be united with others. I read poetry so that I am true to my own need for solitude. I read poetry because it’s so human in its frailty and yet so strong in its humanity.
—Deema Shehabi, from an interview with Fringe Magazine
from womb dreams.
stillness is in the blood
and smooth and foolish
jazz, mercy and the voice of dawn
voice of galaxies. But listen to this, Poetry Dilettantes, suicide bards and drunken monkeys, word grenade throwers, and their murderers: dreams only know the eyes of creation than becoming prostituted. sky of everyday life is the lesson. Behold the way for all to dream and burn to the end with the bare sun drifting above you.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
The faces of God are somebody's art.
One hundred fragments of adventure---distant harmonies.
He is uproar of stars and relentless lost experiments.
We are silence that is not silence, then dysphonias and cacophonies.
Mangy dogs and pole dancers, incredible wandering corpses and rockabilly angels.
He is more back street heart: crazy wonder, exile . Which is exploding mind, and which is immortal blues: He is a thousand things which float on darkness.
Image: Composite, Roger Ballen & kn.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Twilight Jesus, your questions themselves are the word, not your flesh. I have a beggar’s faith. I am an El Penito bit by a snake trapped within a voice and words. Twilight, I have only hurt myself. I found my cross within, a cloistered space, along a narrow bank where I am just a voice in the dark asking for alms.
Composite Image: kn.