Indie Earworms

I canNOT stop listening to this on repeat.


A Facebook friend identified the ragas in Bombay Bicycle Club's "Shuffle" as a mix of Kalyani/Mohanam (Carnatic) and Yaman/Bhoopali (Hindustani), if you're into Indian classical music.

And yes, it sounds a lot like Matt and Kim's "Daylight."

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Daybreak

There is a river

rubbled wrong

with illicit sun

there is a silence

mighty, fruitful

festering

there are lies 

and examples

legs trailing

into the temple,

comprehending 
monuments

in their unruly

matted and

sultry sleep


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T(H)AT Seattle

When not being coached on how to interview by my lovely friend P, David Fleming drew me a pretty picture. 

I can't thank P and D enough.

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Quiet

A rubble of such wrong
a refuge made

sitting here just talking
to me, just me

I say "love" again and again
careful (so full of care)

birthing past and future
star after star

the children define words
with pictures

branching color, fencing
feeling

the root green of difficulty
rooms of blue sky

Science

(for NuNu)

dusty as machines of snow
in rhythm already known

flowers, taller than towers
grown while everyone sleeps

wanting nothing, taking nothing
but the tiniest of mysteries

in the doorway the child stands
frightened by tread as of tigers

pulped in her squinting clutch
the gossamer of dryer lint

Hope (n.) Vs. Hope (v.)

Five students have followed me from last semester and into the new class that started yesterday, so I should be feeling validated as a teacher.

But the teaching gig that I applied to back in November and sent additional material to in December, and interviewed for in Seattle in January, and have obsessed about since I first heard about it in April of 2011 has completely passed me by.

Other scholars have received follow up interviews.

But not me. not me.

Disbelief and crying.

Crying and wondering.

L & N tell me there's something better in store.

I hope so.

-

A Warm

Open, open the door of sky
the sun waits outside

Welcome, welcome, come in
I've walked everywhere

Like the sand's memory
of waves are words

Pilgrims stuttering, saunter in
like blessings upon bread

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