I met someone in person tonight that I’ve known online for five and a half years. It was poetry that brought us together. Before we knew anything else about each other, we exchanged poems. We wrote for each other. Haiku about butterflies mine in response to his in response to mine. Words we made fly together, some of them poems that nobody else has read. Dream catchers. Such a gift, to get to know someone this way. Coughs recurring dreams scars, via Facebook message, for years. The small aches we have let the other see. Here is this thing that hurts, hold it for me. And now to sit together. To hear each other say the word “sun.” 


The Poems, Boris Eldagsen


No wings but the comfort of scars,
proof that life happened to the skin.
No white cloth, 
water the only shelter.
Mistakes ripe as stolen fruit
that we pass to each other
in the buzzing twilight.
Swallow everything, every last pit.
No sun, no angels. 



Read the rest of our African Poetry Sampler at the BR site.


Read the rest of our African Poetry Sampler at the BR site.


Jumping out of a plane is one of those things you cannot remember doing. I cannot remember loving the few men I thought I did. I cannot remember who taught me how to ride a bike. I cannot remember the dreams I feel I should when I’m standing in the shower each morning. Flying in the air is not like the sea. My ears remember voices underwater. And so if it weren’t for the things left behind, I’m not sure I’d know – that I jumped out of a plane yesterday. That I got hit by a car this morning. The skydive left my right thigh muscle longing for pressure. Being thrown off my bike, well, my left leg is burning. Before starting on my route to work I thought to myself going down the stairs “you are not in a bad mood.”

Right before the skydive we were made to watch a video about all the things that can go wrong. All I could focus on were my legs. What if I don’t land properly? You can lose your legs, don’t you like your legs? I have loved my legs. The places they have traveled. How they carry me. In the last three years, they seem weary. I don’t know what to think about the burning pain. I don’t want a hospital or a lawsuit. I want the typewriter I had a dream about last night. There was a man sitting next to me waiting for me to finish typing. There I stood, making mistakes I couldn’t delete.



Lifted from:



     I won’t soon forget the events that took place in #ferguson…will you?

(via inkinmyfingernails)

I have not looked at “the novel” in weeks. If I don’t go back to it, I can pretend that there is something there, that some of the words are good, that I don’t have to start from scratch for, oh, is it the ninth time? 

I am uncomfortable calling it a novel. I call it “my mess” with equal parts affection and terror. My mess laughs behind my back. My mess eats popcorn while I stare at the screen. My mess doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up. 

August finally woke up this week and remembered it’s supposed to feel like summer. Sun and sun and the smell of dust and dry leaves. 

"No angel." 


Basile Pesso, photographer, writer and interviewer, Spain
My Tumblr
My Fotoblur
My group there : Eroticism and Abstraction



Basile Pesso, photographer, writer and interviewer, Spain


My Tumblr

My Fotoblur

My group there : Eroticism and Abstraction

In two weeks my writing class starts. A fiction workshop. I’m scared because I don’t know how to write fiction. Logically I understand that that’s the point—you take a class in order to learn something you don’t already know, but. The doubt, the feeling worthless.

In three weeks choir starts. More doubt. I will have to switch from second soprano to first alto, because my stupid vocal cord remains paralyzed, and higher notes are definitely a problem. Isn’t it so disappointing to be limited by the physical? A small membrane that refuses to move.

September is a time for beginnings. I am always beginning.

In my first creative writing workshop in college a girl in my class wrote a poem that ended with the line, “Oh I am still the caterpillar.”  


A street and a body.
We need a new language
for hands reaching up,
hands keeping the sky blameless.
The ways to break a body
is how we learn about counting. 
His name a thirst
and not enough water.


(Source: lostinurbanism, via smashfizzle)

I want to hide and cry myself into oblivion. Make it stop. I don’t know where the hinges are but this is what unhinged feels like. 

Mike Brown. James Foley. And more, always more. My jaw clenched for days. So hard to focus on anything else. 

Bodies and water. The pain in my lower back persists. Pain, the body reminding us to love it better. 


his image everywhere. his name
hums like every letter of the alphabet.
our skin a fault to march with.
my basic and deepest fear is sleep:
where he lies on the ground
trying to lift himself up.


In the workshop on visual writing we talk about color, perspective, focus. We do writing exercises. One of them is to use scale to show pity or awe. I write a paragraph about a woman standing on the edge of the sea, but when I read it out lout, I realize that instead of in awe my heroine sounds suicidal. Well. It’s a thin line between obsession and obliteration. 

Mike Brown. So hard to focus on anything else. I hit Refresh Refresh Refresh and still no relief. Every story, every photograph more infuriating, more painful than the rest. My jaw hurts from trying to swallow air around this injustice.

Take only what you need and nothing more, the yoga teacher says. I inhale so deep I feel the city in my throat. I need everything. 


Stunning illustration woman portrait from Rahaf Dk Albab