Sara Potocsny
What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.
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What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.
What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.
What’s the pillar meant to bear the weight of? / What terrible incarnations of the public will be invited to celebrate? / I don’t miss you. That’s the first sign I’m free.
We smothered the memories of flavourless meals, short showers, watered-down milk, mouldy bread, freezing nights without heating, and stuffy colds, flus or injuries without medicine, with our newfound, unbridled, six-star luxury.
This morning a news story: For four years, // a woman thought she was venerating // a statue of Buddha, // when actually it was a Shrek action figure
Little here has gone as planned. On the seventh day / I tacked Piss Christ over my desk like a Catholic faggot / even though I am, on technicality, neither.
A friend gave me this poem, the way friends give me a lot of things, the same way most of what I absorb culturally seems to happen almost accidentally, and the same way anyone’s accidents add up to their life ultimately…
Moving between sound and performance, Be is a facilitator of music, dance and embodiment ritual. Their practice bridges dance training with expanded vocal techniques, sound healing, experimental music and conflict resolution.
I hardly ever post anything on X but I do sometimes leave a comment on someone else’s post after which I always feel a strong urge to go back and see if anyone has commented on it.
I know history through my ancestors’ wounds — / I have seen what happens / when language becomes a ledger.
and when you say it’s in the quiet times / the enormity of what’s happening / floods over you, I invent / storms of bioluminescence…
Would it now be considered insensitive to refer to a Scandinavian / person as The Ice Man? I dunno, but back then it was fine.
Even with my long term connections, no one ever called / me babe, hun, or worse, dear. Sometimes they’d say Tony. / Other times they just started talking and I knew the words / were meant for me…
The flat, diaphanous mountain seemed to have formed / the way an image takes shape in a poet’s mind, / and the moon rode its shoulder like a cat…
Together we lower her. / Her head flops in first, like a turn in sleep; / we arrange the paws under and wordlessly / scatter dirt. I reach for a spade.
He wanted to forget her now. She had tortured him for years, seducing him with her odour and she often stank. He liked to kiss her profusely on her breasts, for he loved the smell of milk, and her armpits, though masked with perfume, were bitter.
I listened all morning to the raven’s knock / though that is a lie. / I listened for maybe two minutes. / Maybe one.
She’s given to me, the dragonfly, / a quiet comma in the air, she hovers / as the grasslight blows into her eyes, / still as if holding to a single point.
Poetry, fiction, reviews, and interviews, rolled out daily over the month of May, and possibly a bit of June. Check back daily to see what’s new.
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