Face
The face of the man who knows he won't be tortured even when his bombs start to go off. His human rights are acute, unlike the human rights of his victims. His smiling face is the face of our own humanity staring back at us.
Canned food doesn’t fly
That day the rooster misses the sunrise a strangeness sits on the world White birds are counting each other's autographs because the horizon smells of burnt rubber A well-kempt general does the narration: next week they will pull in the moon I nod sullenly on my perch, his eyes are gray like ash.
Convenient Store
Convenient Store This one here is a microwave world, we are sheltering our love from love. I sit down in a convenient store. I drink a cup of coffee. I look at the plastic bottles with pink lids standing on the shelves like proud flamingos. They are indestructible promises of freedom, their feet ringed with ...
Facebook Psycho
I friended you, you didn’t friend me back, which left me feeling powerless indeed: despite my wounded longing to attack, the software wouldn’t mark you "enemied.” And so, of course, I had to move offline to properly avenge your cyber-slap— with help from this devoted blade of mine. There’s nothing like an old-school killer app. - Melissa Balmain
Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. William Shakespeare
Reading: Green Grapes by Yuk-Sa Lee
Yi Korean original: 청포도(靑葡萄) - 이육사 내 고장 칠월은 청포도가 익어 가는 시절. 이 마을 전설이 주저리주저리 열리고 먼 데 하늘이 꿈꾸며 알알이 들어와 박혀, 하늘 밑 푸른 바다가 가슴을 열고 흰 돛 단 배가 곱게 밀려서 오면, 내가 바라는 손님은 고달픈 몸으로 청포(靑袍)를 입고 찾아온다고 했으니, 내 그를 맞아 이 포도를 따 먹으면 두 ...
A street
yesterday the street I live in became new to me I saw blushing windows in its bend and wound-up cars following the curvature the signs on the rooftops read names I had not noticed before behind a rusty gate the glimpse of an overgrown trellis the scent of blossom rushing in from another season in ...
The Good Life
Mark likes to play computer games. In real life he fixes televisions. There are solder spots on his hands, when he sends his armies to the front lines. Paul, who measures buildings before they are inhabited, enjoys spinning a lifetime of infinities in his mind. Oscar, the media guy, prefers sitting in the sun. Justine ...
Uprooted
When I was born, my parents planted a birch tree in our back garden. I could not see it from my room at the front of the house. The room in which I read my Winnetou, in which I touched a breast for the first time. The room I painted ocher, and decorated with beer ...
Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before. - Audre Lorde