Offspring of None send value perpetually.
The drift of purport;
The curious unspeakable moment of time.
For the scape follows the land;
For the dejection fraternizes the object.
And the many lives of a dark country road appear.
The Writer’s Caravan
“To write is also not to speak. It is to keep silent. It is to howl noiselessly.”
I created this space to facilitate conversations between writers, study and frame the dialogue that is emerging from social media exchanges & now I am using it to curate art/text/writing originating from tumblr.
If you are a dilettante of the Word, you are welcome to submit something or another.This is a repository of phoenix odes, of titan tongues, the bareboned leviathans of literature taking form in the catacombs & bracken waters. This is an accumulation of the minutiae, the conundrum, the ordinary episodes we swim through.
Oulipo, Post-moderism,Surrealism, abstraction, antiquity, alt lit, prose, poetry, storytellers playwrights, fragments, amorphousness : all received with grace.
Aside from that I will be updating information that will serve useful as writer’s resources.
Welcome to the Caravan.
Assuming I came into the
several tongues of the world
but troubled of ipse
then and only then
I could substitute your glossectomy
for a virgin sake nigiri.
An August Atlas
It is me you want in your virtuous dismissal of orthodox wisdom
the seemingly cureless (& nappy) manifolds of the country
to which we were instinctive, extinct.
An atlas at last O’wonderful!
along where the road has left its faithful
(hitchhikers in reminisce)
to bathe the slender shoulder with their own adversary, hope-
from returning sentiment of the surviving Earth to Earth.
In totality great totality imitable totality,
Johan’s clarinet [sic] plays per se a cleft,
a classic etude,
and I share with you what you cannot always comprehend;
Today I am this man and tomorrow I am proposed to be alike
but, with good fortune,
I may carry the monumental bearing as no other contemporary
of mine can dream to bleed (let them will with their admirable need).
hitherto my thwart of all early embrace,
the shelter of the heavenly affiliation around which the poets revolve,
you can wish for another escort as I but I assure you
they know nothing of all the forgotten places.
In the wide nine
is as the beginning
of forge in the earth.
He, for so when he
turns with sadness,
finished writing my word,
my traveling stomach
answering each crave.
liberty, great elate.
Of all of these untold
it is the tiniest
that makes me tireless
minutes before I sleep
falling into wonder
into marvelous awe
as vixen in The Capital
brush semen off teeth.
'It has always seemed strange to me,' said Doc. 'The things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.'
'Who wants to be good if he has to be hungry too?' said Richard Frost.
'Oh, it isn't a matter of hunger. It's something quite different. The sale of souls to gain the whole world is completely voluntary and almost unanimous—but not quite…'
— John Steinbeck, Cannery Row
I don’t pretend to be its true love,
nor its made believe.
Given one hermit like sermon,
a century relies on my wall
and every savored one I deed.
Toward the drought stayed as
the man sidestepped the shallow thin.
The man was dry with no water;
the night was light that sent him chill.
I shall be found, or else I am to
listen to this man, a man worth a listen
to. He who walks by without moving
in his hand a lost little velcro shoe.