by Joshua Espinoza
i’ve figured out what my past means.
i’ve driven my car off the side of a cliff in five hundred dreams.
i’ve held my hands out into the night air while laughing
and screaming hysterically.
i’ve said “fuck you” in person to exactly one cop.
i’ve been grainy black and white closed circuit camera footage.
i’ve been silence preempted by coma.
i’ve climbed over more walls than walked through doors.
i’ve felt a lump in my throat every night for five years.
i’ve learned that you can will a rash into existence.
i’ve kissed god on her dumb ugly lips.
i’ve seen the sun come up more than ten but less than fifty times.
i’ve revoked my personhood at various junctures for various reasons.
i’ve been both a girl who thought she was boy
and a girl who thought she was a woman.
i’ve been wrong about something every day of my life.
i’ve been whole for five second intervals.
i’ve listened to songs over and over until
they’ve become like dirt on the walls of my bedroom.
i’ve cried to two sitcoms, one car commercial, half of all
the movies i’ve ever seen, the end of every book i’ve ever read,
lots of poems, something my mom said, and
you touching my hand like it was never gone.
i’ve come into my own and fallen back out.
i’ve quit drugs and cigarettes, but not alcohol or hating myself.
i’ve discovered the space between incomplete and complete.
i’ve built houses there that i inhabit when i am sad.
i’ve memorized more and more of them each time.
i’ve become a person who is able to fall asleep
in her own skin without first having to remove it.
i’ve survived the process.
Joshua Espinoza called us from Riverside, CA.
More about Joshua.
more Ai Weiwei 4 Ever.
Boston at night, glowing under a trace of fog.
It’s official, British Problems is my favourite thing of reddit
- fight in French Army (choice for 400 officers and NCO)
- work as military workers (choice for 10,000 men). They were sent back to Odessa in 1919.
The 1,300 men who didn’t accept these solutions were sent to Algeria for penal labour.
The men on this pic belonged to a unit of military workers. I’ve got other pics of them showing them working on the canal road and cleaning the streets. And drinking in local cafés, obviously!
One last note: did you know that French cafés are nicknamed “bistrots” (pronounced “bistro”), which is the Russian word for “quick” (быстро)? According to the legend, Russian cossaks during the occupation of Paris in 1814 thought that the service was too slow and always shouted “Bistro, bistro!”. And this would be the origin of the name of French cafés. We’ll never know if our Russian soldier knew this story.
by Frieda Hughes
"Wanting to breathe life into their own dead babies They took her dreams, collected words from one Who did their suffering for them. They fingered through her mental underwear With every piece she wrote. Wanting her naked. Wanting to know what made her. Then tried to feather up the bird again. The vulture with its bloody head Inside its own belly, Sucking up its own juice, Working out its own shape, Its own reason, Its own death. While their mothers lay in quiet graves Squared out by those green cut pebbles And flowers in a jam jar, they dug mine up. Right down to the shells I scattered on her coffin. They turned her over like meat on coals To find the secrets of her withered thighs And shrunken breasts. They scooped out her eyes to see how she saw, And bit away her tongue in tiny mouthfuls To speak with her voice. But each one tasted separate flesh, Ate a different organ, Touched other skin. Insisted on being the one Who knew best, Who had the right recipe. When she came out of the oven They had gutted, peeled And garnished her. They called her theirs. All this time I had thought She belonged to me most."
published November 8th 1997 in The Guardian
Kazuya Akimoto, The Black Gate.
Per Signum Diaboli, Vocamus Te, Deus Absconditus!
Bill Nye opens his mailbox
“BILL BILL BILL BILL BILL BILL BILL BILL BILL BILL” he shouts as he flips through his many house payments due at the end of the month