quote from the director of Revanche

"Loneliness is probably an inextricable part of our modern lives, and yet I consider it an illusion. We always think of ourselves as being separate from the world, and in this way we deceive ourselves. This separation is just an invention of our imagination; in many ways we are constantly and directly interwoven in a larger whole. Loneliness is an attribute of our limited awareness, not of life itself. From the outside, the old man appears to be the loneliest character, but I think he is the least lonely of all. He has a clear identity, even if outwardly this makes his life difficult. It is an identity nevertheless. And he has his faith. And he isn't afraid of death. He may be alone, yes. But he isn't lonely."

-Götz Spielmann, Director

telling bear

telling a coworker at the cash 
register today about the college 
student who was attacked 
by a black bear in new jersey  
and died while shooting it 
with his phone (alas, 
phones are amazing, but they 
don't stop bears!). 

i look after the bear 
books at the store and last 
night i found 
a memoir written 
by a woman who barely 
survived an attack 
by a grizzly, albeit at 
the expense of her 
face, which was 
horribly disfigured. 

as i was telling this, 
a customer approached and asked 
if we could put something on 
hold for him and i said sure, 
what's your name? and he replied, 

KODIAK.

photograph by S. Taheri

captive audience

i left i left he says, i found the escape! as if the tape recorder he held in his hand was hard of hearing, which makes me think of how soft & fuzzy everything can sound when hearing is hard. it's about respect he says, RESPECT he bites, loud enough for us all to ignore. i had just walked in and ordered a tea from the mousy barista who had pulled the overcast over her head, CAT FLAG it said, with a band of black cats staring solemnly overhead. the petulant manager steeples his chin as his feet glug the stairs down, his indifference memorized by the bottom. how can you wean yourself from the habit of believing that what is obviously not yours is yours as my sweat does not purchase any equity here, and what is left when you be leaving, foraging for a new set of eyes whose vision is clear & correct, swimming in juices both lighter & brighter than my dear dark willamette. let us pause to absorb the dreadlocked man's rant, RACISM, SLAVERY, I AM BLACK he says, I AM BLACK! his voice is raised to meet the side that burns, his righteous fury reflected back as every gun is pointed at what the shooter lacks - a deeper connection. you can die free here or survive on tomorrow's rock, the top of it fenced off to prevent you from falling into the sea below. i look up from where i sit, in front of my own window, where i attempt to receive my own reflection, my open notebook recording my own rant. the dreadlocked man has gone silent, retreating into his darkest shape, or perhaps his fury burns in some other state, where hands held high plead to the fluorescent moons amid the stinging haze. all our hands are pale when they are raised. all our windows clean.

my dark river speaks (an ekphrasis piece inspired by the Columbia River Shadows photogram series)

river dark  
malevolent under 
not sun skins 
the cathedral 
rain cracked 
contaminated 
bottom ripped 
canvas fed  
womb drink 
who we are 
crawls past the roar 
captured & stabbed 
in our belly glow 
unbearably brushed 
by meadow sway 
wind stripped our swollen 
tears ring the rupture 
as if it was rapture
as all those satellites 
float just 
above the grime 

transmitting 
transmitting 

pictures are of black & white prints made by anna daedalus & kerry davis

http://annadaedalus.com/?g=columbiarivershadows

I Speak of Blood by Xu Lizhi (1990-2014)

I Speak of Blood by Xu Lizhi (1990-2014)

I speak of blood, because I can’t help it
I’d love to talk about flowers in the breeze and the moon in the snow
I’d love to talk about imperial history, about poems in wine
But this reality only lets me speak of blood
blood from a rented room the size of a matchbox
narrow, cramped, with no sight of the sun all year
extruding working guys and girls
stray women in long-distance marriages
sichuan chaps selling mala tang
old ladies from henan manning stands
and me with eyes open all night to write a poem
after running about all day to make a living
I tell you about these people, about us
ants struggling through the swamp of life
drops of blood on the way to work
blood chased by cops or smashed by the machine
by casting off insomnia, disease, downsizes, suicide
each explosive word
in the pearl river delta, in the pit of the stomach of the country
eviscerated by an order slip slicing like a kaishaku blade
I tell you these things
even as I go mute, even as my tongue cracks
to tear open the silence of the age
to speak of blood, of the sky crumbling
I speak of blood, my mouth all crimson

-translated by Lucas Klein, Assistant Professor at the University of Hong Kong’s School of Chinese

「我谈到血」

我谈到血，也是出于无奈
我也想谈谈风花雪月
谈谈前朝的历史，酒中的诗词
可现实让我只能谈到血
血源自火柴盒般的出租屋
这里狭窄，逼仄，终年不见天日
挤压着打工仔打工妹
失足妇女异地丈夫
卖麻辣烫的四川小伙
摆地滩的河南老人
以及白天为生活而奔波
黑夜里睁着眼睛写诗的我
我向你们谈到这些人，谈到我们
一只只在生活的泥沼中挣扎的蚂蚁
一滴滴在打工路上走动的血
被城管追赶或者机台绞碎的血
沿途撒下失眠，疾病，下岗，自杀
一个个爆炸的词汇
在珠三角，在祖国的腹部
被介错刀一样的订单解剖着
我向你们谈到这些
纵然声音喑哑，舌头断裂
也要撕开这时代的沉默
我谈到血，天空破碎
我谈到血，满嘴鲜红

2013年9月17日

connoisseurs of light

evil? is it 

the opposite of 

feeling alive? yeah, 

he's friendly, but 

seeking permission 

to pet instead 

of just petting is 

good practice for 

learning how to get 

consent. she 

reclines in 

the shade of 

a beautiful autumn 

morning, mirrored 

in her silver sun-

glasses sparkling, 

a hint of crisp 

amid summer's last 

gasp. does 

nostalgia 

depend on 

kindness, or 

kindness 

nostalgia? 

both are warm 

& fuzzy blankets. 

the barista dangles 

chilled notes from the ceiling 
just to make sure we know 
its cool in here. 

diagnosis means 
to know apart from. 
alleviating suffering 

begins with giving 

affliction a name, 

the surgeon said, 

but what if life 

is your affliction? 

floating  

until we become too 
heavy 
to float. 

a tall young man 

exits wearing 

a chalk white skeleton 

on his black tshirt 

didn't we used to 

celebrate the seasons 

& our connection to 

nature and now 

we celebrate money. 

why do we need so much 

sweetness and what 

is so bitter about our lies

that we have to hide the taste 

with sugar & shine? 

as if having filled. 

we should know by now 

as cars rush past. black 

clad ladies tilting tables 

upright onto their 

bright white legs as 

a young man skates 

lazy figure eights 

down my neighborhood's 

gently sloping hill. 

before me a young woman 

sits down at a sidewalk table. 

in one arm, glistening with 

fresh ink, she holds 

the leash to a caramel 

coated mother who 

watches & waits 

for her treat. the trees, 

those connoisseurs of light,

have begun to change.  

the trees know.

right on time

running late for the bus
running and missing it
but not missing this sun-
light so delicate. i love
how it hangs there like
crepe paper half-heartedly
hung for a party we're too
tired to clean up for. 
i waited inside this 
clear plastic can, empty of
everything but the traces
of its function. of course,
the next bus was late as we
maintained our proper 
spacing on this 
glowing court. 

someone who was there 
wanted you to know.
someone who was there
will never know. 
and someone who was there
had all the time in the world
to catch the light.