I remember the voice coming out of my kitchen radio sometime back in 2003 or 04 – before I moved to the Sunshine Coast – when I still lived above Turks, on the Drive. It caught me, that voice and the poetry it was speaking, and I sat still to listen until he was done. [...]
Medellín – so badly desiring to capture this place between these pages and also know the impossibility of it. It is noisy and dangerous, polluted, and crowded with throngs of people mostly going in circles – the dispossessed caught in the bowl that is the base of this city. Where Pablo Escobar once ruled is [...]
(I’m determined to start writing about more than my woes and get a bit creative again – so I’m reviving the one-word essay).
I haven’t hiked in awhile – not the serious kind of hiking where you put on your pack for several long days and come home with tanned shoulders, a hiking boot slightly melted [...]
(this is the first thing i wrote in my new notebook)
a fresh, blank notebook is like a secret promise that this time, finally, one will get the words right. those would be the words that keep the relationship intact, get the poem published, find their way into the hearts of friends and strangers alike. there [...]
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