Suddenly every poem I've ever written about someone else became about you
seen from Türkiye
seen from China

seen from Türkiye
seen from Yemen
seen from United States
seen from China

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia
seen from Yemen

seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Australia

seen from Singapore

seen from United States

seen from Spain

seen from Australia
seen from China

seen from United States
Suddenly every poem I've ever written about someone else became about you
Narcissus To Achilles
Yesterday, I passed over a bridge and saw a boot underwater. Such thoughts I had, I cannot tell you. Frank Stanford • The Singing Knives
There is not enough written about the art of tinies. Tiny art. Tiny music. What sort of music do borrowers play? Do they even play music? Or, since they have been living unseen and unheard by their larger cousins for generations and centuries and millennia, is their music a music of rustles, of soft winds over surfaces, pianississimo? Do fairies paint? Do pixies sculpt? Do tinies write? They must. What would it be like?
when we were dating, my husband gave me a tiny square journal and told me it was for 5-word poems. I found it today after some years, mostly blank, but these particular entries remind me of a rather uncertain time in my life. I have never been without a roof over my head, but I spent a long time floating about, waiting for home to reveal itself. I am thankful that this feeling is only a memory.
Exploring tarot with collage poetry this month. [x]
May these days be worth remembering in fifty years.
https://medium.com/the-brain-is-a-noodle/half-a-century-2cd0eacc1629 / #quotes
Untitled #107
cold air, clear skies: writing time.