

Even half-blind men
hope to see again.
True words end;
lies extend.
via Proverbs
![Africans bringing wood (LOC)
[between ca. 1915 and ca. 1920]
1 negative : glass ; 5 x 7 in. or smaller.](https://i0.wp.com/live.staticflickr.com/4431/36772967196_98d31667b3_b.jpg?ssl=1)


[The President of the US] on Wednesday signed a travel ban on 12 countries, primarily in Africa and the Middle East, resurrecting an effort from his first term to prevent large numbers of immigrants and visitors from entering the United States.
The ban, which goes into effect on Monday, bars travel to the United States by citizens of Afghanistan, Myanmar, Chad, the Republic of Congo, Equatorial Guinea, Eritrea, Haiti, Iran, Libya, Somalia, Sudan and Yemen.
via NYTimes (June 4, 2025, 8:52 p.m. ET).
There’s also a list of exceptions, including green card holders, dual citizens, athletes traveling to the U.S. for the World Cup or the Olympics, and others. See who’s exempted.

Yes, of course,
in the end so much comes down to privilege
and its various penumbras, but too much
of our unruly animus has already been
wasted on reprisals, too much of the
unblessed air is filled with smoke from
undignified fires. Oh friends, take
whatever kindness you can find
and be profligate in its expenditure
Be Kind, Michael Blumenthal





Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile – the winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah – the Sea!
Might I but moor – tonight –
In thee!
Wild nights – Wild nights!, Emily Dickinson

Writing is a kind of loving. Loving sticks a widget into the machinery of doubt.
The End Is the Beginning, Mónica Gomery
I cringe when he curses my heros
I cringe when he talks like nero
Sodden
Sweepin his puddly tears
Crying like he been sweepin for years
But I hear him
And know
Somewhere
He’s not entirely so wrong
But I cannot blame him
And I will not shame him
Only holyest praise
Like stilts or boat boots
So he can ride in with the tide
If he need him some rest
Or to confide in the horizon
Because some people have shadows
But I got Broom Sweeper Man—
Resentful and honest
from Most People Have Shadows But I got Broom Sweeper Man, Basie Allen. Iterant, Issue 8.
Palm-Lined with Potience. Ugly Duckling Presse, 2025.


But then there comes that moment rare
When, for no cause that I can find,
The little voices of the air
Sound above all the sea and wind.
The sea and wind do then obey
And sighing, sighing double notes
Of double basses, content to play
A droning chord for the little throats—
The little throats that sing and rise
Up into the light with lovely ease
And a kind of magical, sweet surprise
To hear and know themselves for these—
For these little voices: the bee, the fly,
The leaf that taps, the pod that breaks,
The breeze on the grass-tops bending by,
The shrill quick sound that the insect makes.
Voices of the Air, Katherine Mansfield

When I am feeling depressed and anxious sullen
all you have to do is take your clothes off
and all is wiped away revealing life’s tenderness
that we are flesh and breathe and are near us
as you are really as you are I become as I
really am alive and knowing vaguely what is
and what is important to me above the intrusions
of incident and accidental relationships
which have nothing to do with my life
when I am in your presence I feel life is strong
and will defeat all its enemies and all of mine
and all of yours and yours in you and mine in me
sick logic and feeble reasoning are cured
by the perfect symmetry of your arms and legs
spread out making an eternal circle together
creating a golden pillar beside the Atlantic
the faint line of hair dividing your torso
gives my mind rest and emotions their release
into the infinite air where since once we are
together we always will be in this life come what may
Poem “À la recherche d’ Gertrude Stein“, Frank O’Hara