( me / via )

Becoming a Plague.

"Distractedly pawing at the old notebooks, ambushed by their scratchy configurations of desire.

Barthes: 'the fragment is a spoilsport.'

And: '. . . the problem of writing: how to put up with the fact that the great flood I have within me leads in the best of cases to a rivulet of writing.' "—@lattaj.bsky.social

Mini photozine maker.

"The Modern Poet’s Word Hoard

Hwaet!
Amid ancient hills alive with song
This wordsmith sits, with winking lights.
A wireless network, the world wide web
At my fingertips – friend, or foe?

Well …
Strange and wonderful space stallions surging
Farting fireballs, bright flame leapers
Climb heavenwards to the comet’s riding.
Newton’s progeny, the planet pilgrim,
Explores the emptiness, outward bound,
Carrying mankind’s message to a million stars,
Voyager, void hurdler, slowly vanishing.

But …
Back on earth, ensnared by the Internet,
That seducer of time and solver of puzzles,
That sleepless data-dragon on its mound of dark desires
Hoarding a billion wisdoms and wild dreams battling,
All facts, fictions, fantasies avid for attention.
This work of tech giants has created galleries of kittens,
Floods of fake news, and friends’ news, feeding the beast.

And …
Words are carried across the wind ridden ether,
Distance devoured, time zones denied,
Pictures follow from my pocket-talker,
Face-speaker, far-friend hailer,
Stalker of strangers, snapper of selfies,
A digital harp for my music board,
A library of stories lights up my screen,
The kindness of Kindle keeps me well read.

A riddle …
A nadir of culture, a nemesis of poetry,
A chance to find a wider fellowship.
What am I called?"

—Phyllis Wicks at FGR

"Why does death come to mind when thinking of love."