AG2024_2100538a or landscape where we have held

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Here is a place where nothing can die
Darkness that lives beneath the leaves

We bring our nights there without knowing
We bring our fear there before the singing begins
We bring our silent names there hoping we are forgiven

We bring our hands there scented of a river

We bring our prayers that hide and watch us
The landscape where we have held the loose feathers
Of a fallen bird

And awakened in the land of the unseen

Here is a place where nothing can die …

Lance Henson


Collaborative performance by Amanda Linares + Legna Rodríguez Iglesias

Anarchic, wandering, true

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2022. Photo : Caryl Ivrisse Crochemar

It was the name that called forth the true him.

Anarchic, wandering

There were no photos of them, but they were there in the pictures of trees behind their houses, the fields where they worked, the river they fished, the church where they testified, the joints where they drank.

TM, Tar Baby

Support their artistic development and practice

…protect important black art, yes.

‘Great if you like Baron Samedi staring at you from every corner of the house.’

Academics lack range.

ZS


0403151813g

The Miami Individual Artists (MIA) Grants Program provides non-matching awards to individual artists of all disciplines in Miami-Dade County on a competitive basis to support their artistic development and practice.

Thank you for this grant. (FY24-25).

Place forms voice

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, 
that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near to the heart, 
an eternal pasture folded in all thought

Robert Duncan, Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow

“The word “poet” derives from the ancient Greek ??????? (poietes) which translates simply enough as “a maker.” The word ???? (phren) can be translated as either “heart” or “mind.” The ancient Greeks thought the heart might be filled with the phantasms of all that we love, a kind of breath or pneuma, in Greek, that moves through the senses and embeds the image in the heart—a kind of pasture where we learn to think, learn to feel. We can imagine the poem as a fold in that eternal, internal pasture—a place that voice forms.”
Dan Beachy-Quick in Poetry.


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work in progress, 111124

Kendrick Lamar, wacced out murals

AG2024_1133944b or spends all day, every day, insisting

Some people say the devil is beating
his wife. Some people say the devil
is pawing his wife. Some people say
the devil is doubling down on an overall
attitude of entitlement toward
the body of his wife. Some people
say the devil won’t need to be sorry,
as the devil believes that nothing
comes after this life. Some people say
that in spite of the devil’s public,
long-standing, and meticulously
logged disdain for the health
and wholeness of his wife, the devil
spends all day, every day, insisting
grandly and gleefully on his general
pro-woman ethos, that the devil truly
considers himself to be an unswayed
crusader: effortlessly magnetic,
scrupulous, gracious, and, in spite of
the devil’s several advanced degrees,
a luminous autodidact. Some people
say calm down; this is commonplace.
Some people say calm down;
this is very rare. Some people say
the sun is washing her face. Some
people say in Hell, they’re having a fair.

Sunshower, Natalie Shapero


AG2024_1133944b

A web of loss

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View of Surfcomber Hotel

Gauzy film between
evergreens is a web

of loss. Get closer. Reach
to touch the shimmering

gossamer and your finger
pushes through. Remember

filling that space with desire?
Someone else might grieve

the spider who abandoned
this home; others grow anxious

waiting for a deer’s walk
to wreck it. But you—

you grieve the net of thought
spun inside your own womb:

intricate and glossy and strong.

Miscarriage, Christine Stewart-Nun?ez


In the quiet, Vera could hear its sharp puffs of breath—low and fast—a complete and utter confusion. A denial. The eyes like blank boxes, but there, in their depths, a sense of something moving. A frantic dancing. Erratic. Vera felt her heart pumping awkwardly, palpitating. “Please wait,” Vera whispered.

And then it died. Just like that, she felt it go. Something horrible and also strangely thrilling in it.

Roughage, India Ennenga (Verso)