Right Now

I’m watching a Brazilian film called “Rat Fever” (A Febre do Rato) by Cláudio Assis. It’s a black and white film with beautiful photography and features a vociferous street poet called Zizo. Remember when we were like Zizo? Big mouth poets, rabble rousers, creative and cretinous? Whatever happened to us? If everyone else is an ’emerging’ writer these days, then maybe we are ‘retreating’ writers. Friend, do you remember the blue storm, the night it rained and never stopped? We raised the large black umbrella, put our heads inside it, and never came out again.

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David Leveque1



You hear a voice. You close your eyes. You see a house. It is a day made for sleepwalking, stuffing obsolete coins into broken slot-machines, and the nights are made of hands. You close your eyes further still. You hear more voices. You keep your eyes closed for a couple of years. This is how books are made. Just don’t tell anyone. No one would ever believe you. Make a rosette from a plume of smoke. Keep your eyes and mouth shut and never let the blood congeal.



This blog was four years old in July. This morning I moved every single post into the trash. I found this photograph online today. I like to stare at photographs and chew on the fact that I will never write a poem as dense with silhouette and shadow as this photograph is. And. Neither will you. Never mind, though. Never ever mind. One word after the other we go.