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From a few years back. Enjoy ❤

Down the way, around the edge of the park, where you find kitestrings and beer cans and the plastic ends of swishers when you walk by

Me and my elbows, we walk by also, swinging all over, knocking a Mercedes (the alarm sounds)


Up and over the top, to where you can see the skyline blasted in space-age golds at the end of a day rainy enough to leave a lot of wet in the air

Me and my elbows, we lie down in the grass, they hold me up, they plunge a pattern into the ground that no…

From 1993 to 1997, six Grisham film adaptations were released, all featuring top box office draws in lead roles, all but one generally considered successful pictures, both in terms of box office and broader critical response (though there is a definite range), and three earning Oscar nominations for acting. Directors included Frances Ford Copolla and Sydney Pollock. Stars were the most-sought-after young faces of the day. Most are set in Memphis, all have some action in the south. …

There is an idea of America as one long night.

The opening minutes of Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye, released in 1973, are my favourite stretch of film from the decade. They do what all great movies do: give more than the story is telling, and take us through a series of moments, allowing us to sleepwalk through a place we’ve never been, and a time that could only ever exist once, one way. It’s a dream. It’s full of energy. It’s entirely beaten-down and hopeless. It’s lively with pulpy thrills. …

Poem — May 2021- “Carnival Sal”

Carnival Sal has a set of spare tickets

He knows the guy who prints them each day

It’s only the colour that makes any given one legitimate

The system is not sophisticated

He’ll spot you a set of three


Carnival Sal keeps a rag over one shoulder

A washed one

He might use it here or there, wherever he’s called to

they whistle when they need him,

Two short bursts means ‘Sal get over here’


A clean rage used to be in him

Used to wake him up while he slept


I have no need for this divide

I have no will for this partition

I say fall the gates

I say flow the reservoir

I say purge, and now

I glance across so much land so martyr-wept and mother-held

I look across such a slash of rain-rich wind falling over Chicago

Her ministries and her tenderness

Her garden parks and her many, many schools

Her princes

I say shatter the locks

Let the canal loose

Rush the plains

Make the delta live again

Bring the goddess back her token

Rush the plains


Put me below where every rattle runs through

Where you can hear the slosh

Feel what really moves things along

Pay respect, as is due, to those poles that warp

Our pathlines northernly, southishly

Lie me across the midline of the doldrums, so that I can turn myself to one side

And breathe in one fragrant hemisphere

And turn myself the other way

And take in the brace of the other

Put me down below

Let me fear the wide swath of the horse latitudes

Batten me down

Beneath the tropics

Above the arctic-tonguing westerlies

I find all love here…

Show me how you work

Where you make your firm walls

Show me what you’ve padded with mud, concrete, and clay

What you’ve lined and re-lined

Show me where you tore the perforated edges and tried to not lose even one little loop

Show me where you took that extra care

Those steps that might make another’s boast, but you didn’t even think of it,

It was just part of the work for you

Just part of what needs doing

It was what to do

It was what needed desperate doing

Now show me how you give it away for nothing

For a glance

For a sigh

In High Life, Claire Denis’ 2019 science fiction drama, a group of convicts travel towards a black hole on a one-way mission offered as an alternative to their sentences on earth. Overseeing them is a doctor obsessed with fertility experiments and generally disinterested in respecting personal autonomy. As the film begins, we can already see that the outcome of their journey is oblivion for most of them. They are gone or soon gone in the first minutes of the film, from which we will flash back. …

Manet was one of them

Long time sailing, long time training

Staring at the heavy Dutch frame

— images where silver armor suits are set down on dark tables

and old-looking children wisely clutch at serene mothers

And bricks and winter and breadmakers are lit with fine, layered light-

Manet watches the world rushing, then still, then rushing, then smooth

The ship to Rio has him vomiting into a bucket for weeks

He emerges unable to pick a way to go

He sells his paintings of gypsies and tea drinkers

And then goes, drunk, in carriage, to Longchamps

To see…


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