1. favourite.

    Creole began to tell us what the blues were all about. They were not about anything very new. He and his boys up there were keeping it new, at the risk of ruin, destruction, madness, and death, in order to find new ways to make us listen. For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn’t any other tale to tell, it’s the only light we’ve got in all this darkness.

    from Sonny’s Blues by James Baldwin


  3. rawfootage:

    I held the phone to my mouth
    until the Pleiades rusted in my wine glass
    but I did not call. So many secrets
    I spat in my pocket that summer
    as the highway ran at me,
    laughing and hot-tongued.
    Lesson: jealousy is a mirror that will not break
    no matter how many years of unrequited love
    I have licked off my wrists.
    Lesson: the ice cream in ice cream ads
    is often mashed potatoes because
    they will not melt. Only the night
    is reliable and I let it borrow you.
    Sunburnt knee, elbow, back of ear
    until I am holding a darkness in the shape of you
    and still I do not leave. If I am lucky
    it will not give you back.
    Lesson: the most difficult thing I will ever have
    to survive is myself.



  4. rawfootage:

    For fun I let the bones of the eel get to know my mouth. An inert place from which I only speak my lover’s language when fear allows. When he’s driving stick shift too fast on cobbled roads. When on cobbled roads he rears himself close to running over stray dogs. Work up a loose gut to say I’m not drunk, I swallowed a bone! I am only delirious. I weigh my options: English, Portuguese, body talk.

    On the last evening we slept in a tent on the beach. At every turn I made sure we were one. Nights have never been good to me. The hour of, think this, do that. The hour of being mysteriously choked in my sleep. Yes, I cuddled out of fear the waves would reach us and we’d go our separate ways. That one or three of the hundreds of stray dogs in Santiago would ruffle the tent; malnourished mouths ruffle us to our death. With every sound I waited on - the waves, the hiss of a dog, the low and loud conversation of Tarrafal beach lingerers – we were in a new position. Legs locked weaved like the first attempt at quilting. His hand on my breasts from under the front of my shirt. My thick head resting directly on his armpit. Wet from Cabo Verde’s unremarkable humid winds, our lack of desire shedding its topcoat.

    In his tongue I disappear with all the basics to say no I will not marry you for documents. To hear stories I will never understand the true meaning of. But mostly I’m on his tongue, waiting for him to gather a crowd around me. Chant 1 chant 2 chant 3. Tell me to jump. Record me saying my first word. Applaud me for showing a piece of humaneness.



  6. enough


    I am not good at waiting. It makes me angry to be caught in that impossibly itchy space where I want an answer right now, any kind of answer, but also I don’t want an answer, because what if the answer is no? 

    I want silence and salt and a temporary reprieve from wanting. 

    I want to be enough. For others. For myself.


  7. rawfootage:

    Aries: This week let yourself be open.
    Not like a door but like a hand,
    which is to say you must break
    any promise you’ve made to emptiness.
    It might take practice.
    Open a book you’ve already read
    and imagine yourself as a short sentence
    at the end of a long chapter. How you might
    be an answer if you allow others
    to claim you. If you don’t run.
    On Tuesday good news will come to you
    or at least rain on a sidewalk
    your knees have already memorized.
    Don’t go looking for guilt.
    It will leave a stain no amount of blood
    could ever get out.  




  9. rawfootage:

    palmarejo’s got front row
    seats if what she thinks
    is true about poets. i know
    how you poets gets down
    she jokes. cos she always
    jokes. about my loneliness.
    i know how you poets
    get down she says watching
    me watch the waves wipe out
    whatever’s out there. give me
    all the pretty heavy stones for
    the pockets of my old floral
    dress. & yes i’ll let them take me.
    not cos i’m a poet, but cos i need
    to know who should, on their sunburned
    knees, beg for mercy
    the rocks or the sea.



  10. rawfootage:

    “I collect people’s stories,”
    he says, and I hate him for it.
    I refuse to be the sum of my nights
    or the edge of a name
    I have dragged across my body
    until my blood knew it.
    In this tall city I am not myself but
    an ache, a map with no wrong turns.
    Like the rocks we stole from the ocean,
    so much dimmer now on our bookshelves
    because words spoken in water
    forget their meaning without it.
    When you leave me, tomorrow
    or on a naked lemon-stained morning,
    let it not be for a girl named after a state.
    They are all of them long-haired and reckless
    like highways in love with the sunset.
    All those wheat fields beaded with fireflies.
    All those trains promising,


    so freakin’ grateful for this woman.