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Tag Archives: Daryl Muranaka
We all remember our first dead thing as a vapor: the dead butterfly, the dead bee, on the windowsill. I remember the dead deer half-buried in the sand, the water waving nonchalantly as I strolled along the lakeshore. But that … Continue reading
things change— the forsythia bloom, grass turns green as the blonde winter fades. but the cold stream still flows gray enticed by the promise of summer lurking beyond the blossoms. the cemetery is alive as petals rain upon the graves … Continue reading
Scouring Google Earth, for a village long ago swallowed by the city, I find a gray and lifeless compound menacingly silent to the camera. How what appears to be an industrial slum can be as impenetrable as time. How we … Continue reading
The view from the road goes by in a flash even as the view of the town inches by. The miles blur like a photo mishmash. The years tick-tock as they multiply. Above the shabby farm town, forgotten and lonely, … Continue reading
At the border between Mass & NY there are billboards reminding us there is injustice in the world that turns people into vagabonds & wretches for the curve of their faces, the mishmash of their shades, that blind justice is … Continue reading
Is it bad that I forgot what my own face looked like when someone muttered to me, Why don’t you go back to the Orient where you came from! on my way to work? Here, too, we find the bitter. … Continue reading
Each day, passing the samosa and the roses, the steady routine of returning home sanding away the meaning of life to the essentials of comfort, of her hand on my back, forehead to forehead, a smile or a frown being … Continue reading
He wonders how his life would have changed if he had slept with that woman who excused herself to use the restroom, her eyes so full with hope and anticipation, but when she returned, choked with disappointment because he had … Continue reading
How many deny their religion because it doesn’t say the name God? How much is wrapped, hidden, and shrouded, like a burlap bag over the condemned man’s head. Dogma is human, thus precious. The sacred is profane. The intangible grows … Continue reading
We moved, because we must always move, to a place where we wouldn’t move, somewhere where the houses were all the same, where people owned cars the same as ours, even down to the Barcelona Red. We moved to where … Continue reading
Soon, or maybe not so soon, I will get on a plane to see my parents, daughter firmly in tow, flying to the other side of the world. But as I put my boy to sleep, eyes closed, gnawing on … Continue reading