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Forgot my birth, forgot my death.


I think people want to get kidnapped, and I only say this because it’s been confided to me countless times, and also the obvious: if kidnapping were more like a harmless, unknown sense of adventure.

You hold the advantage of being completely unaccountable for whatever may happen. You have, after all, been kidnapped. What do you know? A kind of magic begins to collect in the night air.

Late-night Summers in my early twenties, me and my girl-friends would call boys & friends up if we were close to their camp, tell them to get ready because they were about to get kidnapped by us, and hang up.
Everyone got ready.



Innocentia - Maria Wiik

I have peasant hands
and love them. Their surface
has created, felt worlds of texture,
caressed skins. They are gentle.

The plants outside droop, sleepy
I get into the bath, all hair & oils
Massage myself, my calves
between my own hands, gentle.

Sweat & warm lilac lullaby
held lungs, a tear slides off down
beside the candle

I am loved, often and dearly,
But I am rarely touched

8pm Bathtimes

Eyes are out of Paris, plead
with the out-of-body vending 
machine to fly high/azure
to collect gun-veils
and stick them to my kin
No quiescent leaf ever
turns at the quartz of
sundry spoon 
© 2014 Daniel Fierro
Htein Lin, “Tree and Gun”

Performance piece, 2014
My work is an obvious cloud. Every door in the cloud is locked.

ben mirov (via
Ruthie’s Chair

Hope is led quietly out
the back door of our place.
Darkness falls in her wake.

She’s stayed with me, sleepless
nights after walking these streets
in a white gown,
a gun gloved in her hand

I let her out the door for myself
she winks at my heart

and mouthes your name

but it’s how she says it

Hope’s Gun