Tuesday, August 21, 2018
Thursday, July 26, 2018
Elegy and history are cousins, she explains, because they’re both forms of autopsy.
I began a letter, as if to a dead friend, or perhaps the preliminary notes for a novel.
He will have out his notebook; under D, he will enter “Phrases to be used on the deaths of friends.”
I do not so much write a book as sit up with it, as with a dying friend.
Valeria Luiselli, Faces in the Crowd | Virginia Woolf, The Waves | Annie Dillard, The Writing Life
The wind then, through seams of bluestem, or switchgrass swayed by a coyote’s passing. Where the fabric gapes, Barthes said, lies the sensual. A prairie cut by winding seeps, or winds or shearing wings. Mare’s tails, mackerels, cirrus, distance dispersed as light. Under a buzzard’s bank and spiral the prairie folds and unfolds. Here between the stands of bluestem, I am interruption. I rake my fingers over culms and panicles. Here seeds burr into my sleeves, spur each hem. In a prairie, I am chance. I am rupture. The wind— thief, ruffian, quick-fingered sky, snatches a kink of my hair. The broken nap falls, wound round like a prairie snake, a coil of barbed wire, a snare for the unwary. In the fall, volunteer naturalists will wrench invading roots and scour grassy densities with fire. Wick, knot, gnarl, my kindled hair will flare, burn, soften into ash, ash that will settle, sieve through soil, compost for roots to suck and worms to cast out, out into the loess that raises redtop, turkeyfoot, sideoats grama, and all the darkened progenies of grass that reach and strive and shape dissent from light.
Testament of Youth (2014)
Friday, June 8, 2018
Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
Monday, June 4, 2018
Thursday, April 19, 2018
Thursday, April 12, 2018
"...think about a “hidden future” as a latent present"
by Yoko Tawada
Sunday, April 8, 2018
Friday, January 26, 2018
A sketch from JM Design Studio's proposal in Phase One, depicting a strand of trees connected by hammocks running along the border.
by Anita Endrezze (Yaqui)
Build a wall of saguaros,
butterflies, and bones
of those who perished
in the desert. A wall of worn shoes,
dry water bottles, poinsettias.
Construct it of gilded or crazy house
mirrors so some can see their true faces.
Build a wall of revolving doors
or revolutionary abuelas.
Make it as high as the sun, strong as tequila.
Boulders of sugar skulls. Adobe or ghosts.
A Lego wall or bubble wrap. A wall of hands
holding hands, hair braided from one woman
to another, one country to another.
A wall made of Berlin. A wall made for tunneling.
A beautiful wall of taco trucks.
A wall of silent stars and migratory songs.
This wall of solar panels and holy light,
panels of compressed cheetos,
topped not by barbed wire but sprouting
avocado seeds, those Aztec testicles.
A wall to keep Us in and Them out.
It will have faces and heartbeats.
Dreams will be terrorists. The Wall will divide
towns, homes, mountains,
the sky that airplanes fly through
with their potential illegals.
Our wallets will be on life support
to pay for it. Let it be built
of guacamole so we can have a bigly block party.
Mortar it with xocoatl, chocolate. Build it from coyote howls
and wild horses drumming across the plains of Texas,
from the memories
of hummingbird warriors and healers.
Stack it thick as blood, which has mingled
for centuries, la vida. Dig the foundation deep.
Create a 2,000 mile altar, lit with votive candles
for those who have crossed over
defending freedom under spangled stars
and drape it with rebozos,
and sweet grass.
Make it from two way windows:
the wind will interrogate us,
the rivers will judge us, for they know how to separate
and divide to become whole.
Pink Floyd will inaugurate it.
Ex-Presidente Fox will give it the middle finger salute.
Wiley Coyote will run headlong into it,
and survive long after history forgets us.
Bees will find sand-scoured holes and fill it
with honey. Heroin will cover it in blood.
But it will be a beautiful wall. A huge wall.
Remember to put a rose-strewn doorway in Nogales
where my grandmother crossed over,
pistols on her hips. Make it a gallery of graffiti art,
a refuge for tumbleweeds,
a border of stories we already know by heart.
Copyright © 2017 by Anita Endrezze
see also: otherborderwall