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Tag Archives: Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé
My eternal wait exists: when will you give me my final antiphon? The Café Irreal exists. In it exists a library, and a stairwell. In it exists an archive of the speculative. Brought into being. Brought into its own comeuppance. … Continue reading
Welcome to the insistent muse. Heralded like a monostich. Terse, unannounced, irreverent. This is the second festival of anxieties to remember. The first was equally remote, bereft of the familiar and familial. The distinction must be made. Between presence and … Continue reading
Today, Gleizes knows the garden will percolate a warmer summer and unwrapped nudes, new world of sunnier days, an open esplanade, its champagne the shade of stratus clouds. Two builders downing their beers. At noon, the women in denim walking … Continue reading
This might just be the perfect afternoon after all. Rahel Senn is playing an old song in her head, on stage. Printemps does sound like spring, its pastel palette, and you on arrival. Not the atonal, but a soft trickle … Continue reading
No content, says the subject. No content, says the subject heading of my astrologer’s email, as if to say this year commences terribly and unremarkably — terrible, terrifyingly so, because of the unremarkable worldliness, the workaday humdrum — and there’s … Continue reading
seeing that the sky has turned heliotrope and hesburgh has finished his last fonseca the wooden cigar box signed off on the top and handed with a nod to the reader as a gift now used to store trinkets each … Continue reading