Suddenly I understand that all the doors (of possibility) are on the inside Answers that can be forged only in silence Behind one: the delicate archive of this current path, preserved behind glass Behind another: overgrown dreams, like a garden full of weeds And behind yet another: true feelings How quickly the truth unravels withinContinue reading “True Feelings”
Once again, in the height of summer mountains shrink behind curtains of haze conjuring the familiar dread of winter’s opaque skies But it’s different, ominous the way the sky brims milk-white replacing the meticulous clear blue of Seattle summer sky Collectively we wonder, the air feeling thicker than usual, if this is our new normalContinue reading “WILDFIRE SKIES”
The hallucinator sees the contents of their mind spread out before them, like dusty old knickknacks brought up from the basement and strewn out in the front yard. Their minds become a kaleidoscope. They look at their life and see themselves as a miracle. An accidental poem by this article in The Atlantic.
It is a wonder that my eyes may see the city from such varied perches, day to day: By bus: elevated so that I may gaze indulgently into wet, dirt-caked cavities of construction sites hidden when I am By bike: so that the flawed contours of road, frenzied traffic patterns spill soft city breath onContinue reading “PHILADELPHIA, NAKED.”
But the argument carries on, goes around corners, crosses the road, turns back on itself, and eventually ends up somewhere neither of us has ever been before–at least, not sober, and not during daylight hours. An accidental poem by Nick Hornby via High Fidelity.