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.
Tag Archives: Writing
PHILADELPHIA, NAKED.
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.”
THE ARGUMENT
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.
AUTOS IN THE NIGHT
Having skittered clear across the wet intersection, one regretful person (clutched in terror) was the reason for standstill traffic tonight Finally, it was my turn to rubberneck, when this ominous, arresting image caught me instead: a procession of autos, snaked miles into the distance– a thousand p u f f s s of exhaust breath hangingContinue reading “AUTOS IN THE NIGHT”
POULSBO
Come morning, we slid tippy kayaks into the Sound, Poulsbo-bound for breakfast Fearless oars separated families of jellyfish, we mean no harm, just passing through And geoducks – what strange creations, sand-fountains that could dance to Mozart Comfort of land, sun-drenched streets of shops, families, Norwegian oddities, pastries the size of frisbees.
fog up the windows 