Chicle y Polvo, Tunnel Projects.
won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.
won’t you celebrate with me, Lucille Clifton
How exquisitely human was the wish for permanent happiness,
after she spoke, the smile that followed made the sun look like a fool.
“Then you’re all mine.” “Oh, yes.”
(TM)
“In this place every true thing is okay.”
“slipped off into his dream of choice.”
Toni Morrison, Paradise
A broad church: secret knowledge and self-mastery at the Poetry Field School, Anahid Nersessian (e-flux)
Powerhouse Arts | 322 3rd Ave, Brooklyn
April 29–May 3, 2026
By the bivouac’s fitful flame,
?A procession winding around me, solemn and sweet and slow;—but first I note,
?The tents of the sleeping army, the fields’ and woods’ dim outline,
?The darkness lit by spots of kindled fire—the silence,
?Like a phantom far or near an occasional figure moving,
?The shrubs and trees, (as I lift my eyes they seem to be stealthily watching me,)
?While wind in procession thoughts, O tender and wond’rous thoughts,
?Of life and death—of home and the past and loved, and of those that are far away;
?A solemn and slow procession there as I sit on the ground,
?By the bivouac’s fitful flame.
By the bivouac’s fitful flame, Walt Whitman
Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,
others call a fleet the most beautiful of
sights the dark earth offers, but I say it’s what-
ever you love best.
And it’s easy to make this understood by
everyone, for she who surpassed all human
kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her
husband—that best of
men—went sailing off to the shores of Troy and
never spent a thought on her child or loving
parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and
left her to wander,
she forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,
she’s not here, and I’d rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.
The Anactoria Poem, Sappho. Translated By Jim Powell
How a tropical bean could help treat Parkinson’s tremors, Meredith Bauer-Mitchell and Eva Sailly (ifas.ufl.edu)
Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.
The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.
And here at our door
The moonlight is laid
Like a drawn sword.
End of Comedy, Louis Untermeyer
Derek Guy on pantalones chinos.
« Quand une personne a vraiment atteint la capacité de créer, son unique devoir est de manifester cette puissance à l’écart des attentes et des jugements. » (Forough Farrokhzâd (1935-1967))
via Librarie Petite Egypte
Perhaps life is a choked moment where my gaze
annihilates itself inside in the pupils of your eyes—
?????I will mingle that sensation with my grasp
?????of the moon and comprehension of darkness.In a room the size of loneliness,
my heart’s the size of love.
It contemplates its simple pretexts for happiness:
the beauty of the flowers’ wilting in a vase,the sapling you planted in our garden,
Reborn, Forugh Farrokhzad. Translated By Sholeh Wolpé
and the canaries’ song—the size of a window.
Behind his project lay the understanding that social life is “a seamless web, a single inconceivable and transindividual process, in which there is no need to invent ways of linking language events and social upheavals or economic contradictions because on that level they were never separate from one another” Benjamin Kunkel on Fredric Jameson.
Lee Friedlander, Life Still. (Aperture)
Six Photographers on Lee Friedlander’s Timeless Influence.
No one really dies in the myths.
No world is lost in the stories.
Everything is lost in the retelling,
in being wondered at. We grow up
and grow old in our land of grass
and blood moons, births and goneness.
We live our myth in the recurrence,
pretending we will return another day.
Like the morning coming every morning.
The truth is we come back as a choir.
Otherwise Eurydice would be forever
in the dark. Our singing brings her
back. Our dying keeps her alive.
The Singers Change, the Music Goes On, Linda Gregg