ㅁ Things I miss about Los Angeles include the smell before the dawn, tacos within a short walk, the whooshing sound of cars, Spanish overheard, broken sidewalks, mad traffic, oak trees, dirt.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Things I miss about Los Angeles include the smell before the dawn, tacos within a short walk, the whooshing sound of cars, Spanish overheard, broken sidewalks, mad traffic, oak trees, dirt.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ My father sleeps with all the lights on. I wonder how it affects dreams. Will my dreams attenuate, during my visit here? It's intentional. Lights on... now sleep. But still, I prefer dark.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The fence presented haphazard rails: janky intentionality, more a symbol of a fence than anything useful... and still it said "fence" where you see it and can feel the path's closed.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The city gave reassurances, anonymous but palpable; the population did things, pursued goals and knew signs, all without guidance, all on their own, inventing, living, real.
– a nonnet.
ㅁ The One Thirty-four embraced me, like a lover, replayed old commutes; the gray skyline hung against an orangish wall defined by the air; I went to Burbank and tasted the sidewalk there, consumed memories; I miss my home here: the city's tight solitudes enveloping all.
– four pseudo-haiku as stanzas in a poem.
ㅁ Some snow fell last night. You can see moonlight reflect. It might change to rain.
– a pseudo-haiku.
ㅁ I sat down in the cold snow, getting wet, trying to get that round 'O', the wheel, on the hub; too low.
– an englyn penfyr.
ㅁ Not-A-Wolf tested the ground with his feet: icy, and gaining a layer of sleet. Nevertheless, he decided to move. Soldiers were coming. He'd something to prove.
– a quatrain in dactylic tetrameter. Not-A-Wolf is Kiamon’s great-great-great-great-grandfather.
ㅁ The moon was big and oddly shaped: three-quarters full, a lump. It hung out over islands, there: the mountain just a bump.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ the mud appears outside my door it's crafted from above I recognize its provenance the clouds are showing love
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ The winter comes here in slow steps with each step made of wet. The only thing that moves in steps: each night is colder yet.
– a quatrain in ballad meter.
ㅁ confused tableaux disjointed narratives surreal settings strange dreams unlikely transitions random characters old memories strange dreams korean prison alaskan school mexican church strange dreams it's happened there appeared made abstract giraffe came said some things captured me turned yellow past events present anxieties future hopes strange dreams
ㅁ Indirectly, the bits were altered, or rather, manipulated, via high-level symbols, small, language-like fragments so appearances began to shift and pixels redrawn, changed
– a nonnet.
ㅁ Yesterday morning, colder, and I walked, stopped and talked... to a boulder, it was silent. I, older.
– an englyn penfyr.