a hand-made face

While contemplating my daughter's artwork...from a few perspectives I asked her, "Whose face is this?"

"You can't tell?" She shrugged.

"Papa! It's obvious" She pushed.

I just moved my head from side to side, as I draped some yarn over her brow.

"Paaaa-pa! It's an african-american grandmother," she smiled.  So I picked a filter and returned the smile.

"It is whomever you want it to be," I winked.

Spoken Words

Last night I ventured into DC for a series of poetry readings at The Big Hunt's basement lounge, and was able to catch up with a few friends from yesteryear.  Steve read from his newly published The Luckless Age.

The evening began with Belarus native Valzhyna Mort reading some of her work.  Her delivery was mesmerizing and her poetry was absorbing.  I was nestled between three of her students as I listened in.  

I became an instant admirer as she stole the show.

The rest of the evening was full of conversations, merriment, whispers, glances, synecdoche, metaphor and some smiles.  The creative energy in that space and the general atmosphere of the city were a welcome change.  On the cab ride home, I lamented leaving the words behinds.

contra dichos

Entre labios y lenguajes, me llegan esos pensamientos.
A veces cuando me tientan, pues... se los regalo al viento.

Pero cuando los secretos se reflejan en el parabrisas, los labios me tiemblan...

y no sé qué mas decirte.