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Sunday, November 29, 2015

Review of Uyghurland: The Furthest Exile

from Phoneme Media 
"home becomes an abyss, a perpetual flux . . ."

Spanning two decades of poetic creation, this collection of poems carefully presents Ahmatjan Osman to the Anglophone reader. Fortunately, this bilingual edition from Phoneme Media encourages the reader to take a calm and patient approach guided by a concise and chronological distribution of the author’s poems.

Initially it is hard to scope Ahmatjan Osman residing in Canada, working a blue-collared job– fork lift operator to be precise. Through a veiled and dark imagery,  the exile motif that permeates throughout the book, challenges the reader to discover. He rightly utilizes the juxtaposition of the occidental and oriental to do so. Like an invocation, Osman boldly poeticizes the seemingly mundane and marginal Western life of an outsider, an immigrant or refugee; demonstrating that this predicament cannot cage and execute the emotion, passion, and assertiveness acquired when leaving home– despite assumptions that it may dilute or be catalogued as forgotten.

The tones of desperation, nostalgia, and anxiety bleed from these pages creating a strong and potent memory or even prophecy. However, the tones are more like oil to the water– the oil as poetry and the water the milieu of the author. It is fascinating that his exile to Canada acts as crucible to forge a poetic language that characterizes the Uyghur language, and the place– or places– which it represents and remembers.

The author lacks a refuge story for the front pages, however, his voice blends an alienated world into a not so extraordinary landscape of Canada for the English reader. Osman summons a memory of home that appears to not exist, or results as mystical and oneiric. He speaks a language only known to the transparent and invisible stories that walk amongst the many oblivious denizens of the world that claims to have a home, country and nation. Unfortunately, the Westernized citizens tend to only look Far East if a garish headline story peaks the interest of the entertainment world. Ahmatjan Osman challenges this with his poetry to listen to the depths and of the common cry in all who are exiled. How many more voices could be echoing or joining this cry in the Western world? 

Uyghurland: The Furthest Exile does not depreciate, (what was mentioned as “story”); rather its poems bring a depth to all matters of modern migration that is relevant in today’s world. The rhythm and song of this collection does not clarify this abstruse theme, nor should it.  The ebb and flow of the collection declares that many exiles exist and they will not end until death, continuing on in an eternal resonation.

What happens with the displaced when justice is reached? What is the outcome when the misplaced are placed? In the shadow of these questions, Ahmatjan Osman gives voice to a being and spirit subject to undefined and dark realities that are constantly imposed upon them and become individuals exposed in foreign circumstances yet granted  the oddness place of exile. The injustice culminates in generalizations and other evasive definitions that, unfortunately, are commonplace in mass media and pop literature; from the most conventional to the most venerable.

The poet’s patience in the shadow of this predicament, and his longing to genuinely search for a new language in light of the refugee, the migrant, the foreigner, place, and home; are felt and prominent throughout this book. Furthermore, the rigorous translation of Jeffrey Yang falls nowhere short of what seems to be a noble and never-ending process. These lines and stanzas travelled thorough self-translation by Osman himself, were passed along to Yang, whom the author trusted for his refined poetic knowledge in the English language, and concluded in a fluid exchange of reciprocity and established trust that is rampantly characteristic in the entire collection. The book is a pure and timeless creation between two dedicated individuals that are bound by a sturdy trust. This indispensable relationship between Yang and Osman present the poems to the curious and novice reader with an experience of reading Uyghurland with a clear sense of familiarity; breaking borders and resonating in a liminal space– possibly named exile. This accessibility does not yield any attraction to a seasoned reader of Uyghur literature or poetry. Phoneme Media’s bilingual edition will more than satiate a reader of a more seasoned familiarity.

In a time when so many humans out of dire need due to horrific circumstances are fleeing one physical place for another; “home” becomes an abyss, a perpetual flux, much like the displaced, misplaced, or place itself. Home never disappears as the memory is a powerful faculty, despite suppression and oppression. This book will take you by the hand and guide you to a place that glimpses these notions in a unique and different way. It honestly searches and cares for the vulnerable beings of this world, not turning a blind eye like the systems and institutions tend to do today.  These poems are subversive without surrendering to exclusion or boxing any individuals in. The poetry of Ahmatjan Osman is an invisible hope that guides the reader throughout its lines and words. Never did a reader expect such modern words to create an arresting ancientness coupled with a welcoming to join the exile. Can a homogenous white Caucasian North American really resonate and fall in synch? Can he or she glimpse into the world of exile? Yes. And there is something strong, declarative and inclusive in Ahmatjan Osman’s following line: 


October, 2015.


Saturday, October 3, 2015

Poking at Memory: A Conversation with Rocío Cerón and Anna Rosenwong | World Literature Today


During the month of June and trickling into July of this year, I had the opportunity to interview Rocío Cerón author of Diorama, and translator Anna Rosenwong. Fortunately, World Literature Today was gracious enough to run it for their column Translation Tuesday this past week. The link above will take you to the interview.

I have now read through the book of poems 4 times. Over the months I have been browsing it's pages from time to time in search of the stubborn melodies and rhythms that will not leave me and contrarily have nestled into my mind hoping to find them again amongst the stanzas and lines. Diorama seems like a hallucinogenic journey with no end. It has not ended for me despite putting it down. The pauses, the imagery, and the allusions are palpable and visionary to the happening of daily life here in Buenos Aires. My notion is that this could be said for other places in Latin America and possibly in regard to other metropolitan cities where migration is constant and growing; not to exclude the spaces where the transitory individual is commonplace (That is if all spaces are not so). Honing in on the liminality of the book's landscape, both political and social, it is important that the reader notice the rich language and potent call to listen. This is enhanced when Cerón invites the Paraguayan writer, and friend, Cristino Bogado to translate a repeated refrain into the Guaraní, extending the book deeper into a frontal reality of Latin American that is so often boxed in as anamorphic due to generalizations and misinformed interpretations. Confusing and hard to capture its coherence at times, the modern urban setting of Latin America is difficult to sketch, interpret, or process, much like the first couple readings of Diorama. However, Cerón exercises her style to corral the elements of such a world by transposing it all to paper by virtue of her visual and symphonic poetics. To the readers' excitement, they will notice that Anna Rosenwong's translation is peerless and nothing short of honest, careful, and symphonic in and of itself.

 As Rocío says, "[Diorama]is a listening book; that´s to say, a book that is influenced by the voices, images, and truths of a nation, a continent. Thus the voices, like in a symphony concert, mix; they meet in a polyphonic composition."




Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Franklin's Murmission

-1

On this Tuesday, there is no difference at all, was the phrase that he continuously murmured. The first murmur was completed before he exited his pension near the corner of Culpina and the Avenida Eva Perón. His murmur was not particular to Tuesdays, nor its consequences, nor the ethereal fog that he found upon leaving Esdras back at home. A typical murmur spell. During the spells, trains pass him and undergrounds reach their destinations. He sweats out the last inklings of any substance in his body while a fog lifts and settles again. Billboards blur and restaurants empty and lights dim. At the end, everyone goes home to inner lairs of thoughts and mundane noise. In rambunctious unison his murmurs, these events, and his thoughts (which are not legible nor writable) struggle for life like the dying light bulb flickering its last beam of light to proclaim existence. His head fills with noise and static. The static and noise drone in unanimity and cage his murmurs of; there is no difference at all

The transmissions of his thoughts intertwine with this murmur like the French braids of young girls. They hang like the same braids, resting on his upper back. They emit a similar smell to that of wet earth. Audibly they harmonize with perfect pitch with an ability to morph with efforts to accompany the plethora of city sounds. This Tuesday, it morphed to the brakes of the underground as the underground arrived to Plaza Virreyes station. The composition and performance merited a recording. The moment could have been experienced in its fullness by any attentive being. He went alone, beginning at the Bolívar station and ending in Plaza Virreyes via the E line. Or vice versa. Or start at Primera Junta, whichever, there is no difference at all. On this Tuesday and on this ride, the lull in time that Franklin experienced added a chorus to the murmurs being backed by the transmission of thought. He recognized a minuscule and nonexistent difference between frustration and indignation, there is no difference at all. The beauty of the murmur and Franklin's transmissions, perceived in smell, sound (and touch), is that differences become obsolete. The bearings of balance declare a presence that is consumed universally by all transitory members of the underground; a portal of sorts. Franklin on this particular Tuesday, possibly entering this portal, had no notion of presence, of existence, of location, of participation, and crashed into a convenient disturbance.  The murmission of Franklin summoned it and opened dialogue with the same. A certain duality of indignation and frustration elevated this murmission and suspended it up into the dark tunnels of the underground so to declare its importance. The suspension culminated in an invisible implosion. Fortunately for Franklin, the tendency concluded in its familiar and mundane transit on the underground. When the sunlight graced his skin again he was acutely reminded how the world is plagued with tendency and there is no difference at all.

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Déjà vu: 8 and a half

"Same shit different day. Personalism bro."

Jēkabs Osis

0

The tendency of the day's frustration and Franklin's tendency to indignation were equally one-sided. Tendencies tend to traverse distant dominions in urban constructs, whisking both the personal and public with consistent strokes. These thoughts impregnated his mind and the mind of his closest friend, Esdras, the monk parrot that lived on his enclosed balcony. Mental implosion was on the Horizon and would potentially go public to the surprise of absolutely– no one. As soon as Franklin’s feet steadied to a scraping rhythm on the sidewalk and proceeded to mix the measures, his precariousness simultaneously secreted one million variants of expression to a calibrated shunting, much like the train. The vague statement "mental breakdown" was as banal to Franklin as love, hate, peace, and justice. These terms had nestled next to a surplus of oxidized paper clips and bland cough drops in the junk drawer of his mind. Despite Franklin’s diversion from the term, Esdras seemed to be on the verge of applying “mental breakdown” to her vocabulary at any moment. It was on the tip of her tongue. Currently her vocabulary was compiled of Penelope, shit-head, and mother of god. Esdras had inventively built her vocabulary over the past 3 years. She utilized a listening and comprehension approach she acquired from other fellow pets in the building. This was the greatest difference between owner and pet; Franklin´s silence and Esdras' redundant banter. The silence of Franklin and the repetitive cacophony of Esdras was unbearable. It created thick tensions with many layers. Not like a cake. More like a greasy lasagna. This whisking of the private and public spheres in Franklin’s brain were an imago dei of sorts. Franklin, being acutely aware of the tension, began to create anything and everything in the apartment. He converted the structure of the apartment by replacing all the dry wall with cast iron he found in abandoned buildings and on the outskirts of the city. Recently he had replaced his stainless steel sink with a fiberglass sink. The detail of a tinned glass nozzle brought a smile to his face. On the occasion of finding usable materials in the streets he would create new objects; ceramic pencils, ductile belly rings, flip books of recycled cloth, and other practical commodities for visitors who would never cross the threshold of his apartment. During his creative process he would lose himself in labyrinth gardens and urban fosses. They were simply mediums for reflections on hypothetical instances that occurred within the intricate landscape of distinct locations in his apartment and Buenos Aires. If he were pleased with them, he would project them on the blank white walls so he could create a map with his ceramic pencils marking key points with the ductile belly rings. Upon completing each map he would paste them in the various flip-books categorized by complementing guide, which was a list of random locales and street corners in the city. His categories for his maps were a chaotic list and resulted paramount, yet confusing, for even himself. Often in the process Franklin would skip the confusion with accurate discipline and recognize that he was most satisfied with the simple fact of creating objects as a result of the prior reflections. Sometimes he would create hybrid maps of both his apartment and the city. The maps were often too ambiguous to distinguish between city or dwelling place and lacked a key in the bottom right corner to guide the observant. Moreover it was likely that the complimenting guide was in shreds due to the carnivorous tendency of Esdras. Fortunately, using the belly rings as indicators and connecting the sinuous led tracings, freedom and form were always attained with patience and equally necessary frustration. It took Esdras awhile to get used to this routine of Franklin’s because his nutrient intake diminished a bit more in relation to each creation that Franklin undertook. Esdras continued to develop his vocabulary and consequently became noisier, thus pushing Franklin to create more and reflect more. Esdras could not make the connection between the components that were causing his developed malnutrition and Franklin had no time to realize his own negligence. His busyness creating, reflecting and projecting were generating a tense divide in his being and his relationship with Esdras. In one word, blindness. Ironically, he had only glimpsed the surface of it all upon completion of his one-thousandth map that was made to a scale of eight and a half inches to a meter. Unfortunately, this minute glimpse drove Franklin deeper into a grander and more taut division.

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

8 and a half

para Caty

I

The tendency of the day's frustration and Franklin's tendency to indignation were equally one-sided. Thoughts impregnated his mind. Mental explosion was on the Horizon and would potentially go public. The vague statement "mental breakdown" was on the verge of being applied to the vocabulary of all the individuals that were around him. Franklin saw his reflection in the sign of the underground, which was being distracted by the graffiti on it, and this confirmed his self image of mediocrity; both in appearance and viscerally. This particular Tuesday pushed him to a blazing indignation, or frustration. To Franklin, an obnoxious nuance exists between frustration and indignation. A fog on the road that cloaks the avenue in the morning. The fog and it's degree of thickness depends on the company that Franklin holds, his location in the city, the time of day, the climate, and the substances that transit his blood stream. Many people in the streets of Buenos Aires argue, and weakly believe, that circumstances also define the moods and emotion. Consequently, this molds a persons compatibility to society, their ability of using underground transit, their willingness to restaurant dining, or their expedience while waiting on a train. Of course, these circumstances are interrelated with other factors and subsequently enhanced and diminished by other factors, still. For instance, Franklin sees billboards, reads headlines of the free newspaper handouts, and listens to conversations of other passengers. These factors lead him to absorb the moments differently. He lives blind to the difference between frustration and indignation which deems him a precarious being and marginal, at best, to society. On this Tuesday, there is no difference at all, was the phrase that he continuously murmured to his inner being. The first murmur was completed before he exited his pension near the corner of Culpina and the Avenida Eva Perón. This behavior of his is not particular to Tuesdays, nor its consequences, nor the ethereal fog. During Franklin's murmur spells, trains pass him and undergrounds reach their destinations. He sweats out the last inklings of any substance in his body while the fog lifts and settles again. Billboards blur and restaurants empty and their lights dim. At the end, everyone goes home to their inner lairs. In rambunctious unison his murmurs, these events, and his thoughts (which are not legible nor writable) struggle for life. A dying lightbulb flickering its last beam of light to proclaim existence. His head fills with noise and static. The static and noise drone in unison and capture his murmurs of there is no difference at all. Interesting enough, the transmissions of his thoughts intertwine with this murmur. It emits a similar smell to that of wet earth. Audibly they harmonize on perfect pitch to the brakes of the underground as it arrives at the Plaza Virreyes station. The composition and performance merits a recording. The moment can be experienced in its fullness by any attentive being. Find Franklin and go on the underground with him. Or go alone, beginning at the Bolívar  station and ending in Plaza Virreyes via the E line in Buenos Aires. Or vice versa. Or start at Primera Junta, whichever. On this Tuesday and on this ride, the lull in time that Franklin experienced added a chorus to the murmurs being backed by the transmission of thought for Franklin. This recognized a minuscule and nonexistent difference between frustration and indignation. The beauty of the murmur and Franklin's transmissions, perceived in smell, sound (and touch), is that differences become obsolete. The bearings of balance declare a presence that is consumed universally by all transitory members of the underground; a portal of sorts. Franklin on this particular Tuesday, possibly entering this portal, had no notion of presence, of existence, of location, of participation, and crashed into a convenient disturbance.  The murmission of Franklin summoned it and opened dialogue with it. A certain duality of indignation and frustration elevated this murmission and suspended it in the dark tunnels of the underground to declare its importance. The suspension culminated in an invisible implosion. Fortunately for Franklin, the tendency concluded in its familiar and mundane transit on the underground. When the sunlight graced his skin again he was acutely reminded how the world is plagued with tendency.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

The Virgin Villanelle _ May 27th, 2015

I went to sleep again last night, as I do most,
suspending our words above our heads.
The bed has no head board nor a left post.

The window and the river beckons the coast,
illuminated by ferry lights, uniting our beds.
I went to sleep again last night, as I do most.

The calmer and simple talk, dreams boast.
Blur and forgotten faces are the day's shreds.
The bed has no head board, nor a left post.

Dawn collides with the meek smell of toast.
The duo barge and transit vessel treads.
I went to sleep again last night, as I do most.

Sheets weigh on my breast like anonymous host.
She exists in three rooms, or three heads.
The bed has no head board, nor a left post.

The trinity exits the apartment and my head leads a roast.
I Meticulously fold the weights just before I take my Meds.
I went to sleep again last night, as I do most.
The bed has no head board, nor a left post.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Read and Listen

Press play then read. 


Ssfueiuiuu . . . Breath out. The tic, splic, flic, of the warm air brushing and exhaling through my nostrils and exiting my thermus. Am I writing to exhaust myself from the writing itself? I think i'd be writing much more if I weren't in the city. My obsession, despite my previous opinions on obsessions, with sounds is not expressible in word or thought. Or, I have not found or looked deep enough for the way to develop the expression of sound in my writing. If i press the pen harder to the paper, or if my finger and forearm slide on the surface of my desk, then sound becomes a part of this writing. Let's discover¡ I will try and write so the sound of seethes through the ink and paper and into microphone at a frequency that delights the ear and overcomes the weight of the sound outside of this apartment, the noise, the cars, the buses. MayBYe YES! I muSt WRiTE BIGGER and tHE SouND FLoWS with IMPORTANCE. Cacophony, CAuCa Riber. IN THE SIMPLE ACTION OF WRITING THE BEAUTIFUL MUSIC EXTENDS AND SUSPENDS ABOVE THE WORD, THE PEN, AND THE PAPER. TURN PAGE. YES THAT DEF MADE IT ON THE MIC! AND BECAUSE OF IT'S IMPERFECTION IN THE GREED RMAR DR CUBRES. SARMP R SAND SAND WAUBLENG THGS FUNCTION MARC BETFOR & CARNIVE TOO BUT ALL OF THIS IS BECOMING ilLegibLE. What a pITy. I muST Stow down. iF I write in PRint & wRIte with a PIThy short haDN movemeENt the sound and rhythm change. What beautiful music. Now back to the coaxing of the silence desired to accumulate and conquer me. The weight of the sounds penetrate like the jackhammer in the distance. My subterranean stream has benefits acquired from this session. The music within the pen, the self, the world, the moment; the synthesis of  the inerrant whole. The silence in writing is the culmination of it all. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleight!


Thursday, April 16, 2015

La algarabía del yo y los seres

Las palabras y la mente
no son pensamientos
Con los dedos escribo
y omiten los tildes

Las incoherencias pisan
los ruidos suaves
los ruidos consoladores
los ruidos incinerables


Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Transitory Guest (Part 2)


THREE TAXONOMIES


I

     The organization (the host), paid a nice lump of colorful Argentine Peso cash for the students’ (the honored guests), volunteers’ and staff ’s (the marginal guests) accommodations: the steel bars, the security guard (another marginal guest) with his store-bought as opposed to state-issued uniform, the lucrative religious center (the secondary host) haunted with the ghosts of its history (even more marginal guests). Despite my uneasiness, the student exchange program (the first host, again) commenced, as most events eventually must. A composite of 14 nationalities (the honored guests, again), 9 shared meals, 8 educational sessions, ages varying between 14 to 54, varied geographic placements in Argentina ranging from Río Grande, Tierra del Fuego, to La Quiaca, Jujuy, two sexes, sexual preferences unknown, religious affiliations unidentified, and political devotion ambiguous I set out beyond the trees for some proverbial fresh air. From my window back at the sleeping corridor I noticed the monk parakeets flittering around in the back garden. As soon as I had passed through the trees where I had seen the birds, I accosted two of them. I (one marginal guest) blame my personal behavioral on the 56 adolescents (the honored guests) back in the “wifi corridor.” In regards to the nomenclature of the quaint parrots, I prefer Quaker parrot to monk parakeet. Science prefers Myiopsitta monachus monachus. Redundancy; it bores me as quickly as the three pillars of culture will bore the 56 students in their first session.



Colored pencil drawing by the artist Robin Zebley
Browse her work here




II

Bedridden to the burial grounds, terminal.
The Australian Mother Superiors 
are faithfully sequenced by date.

Not the date of their return to the Southern Cone,
but of their departure.

All virgins, local, some sterile, all devout.
Earth pocked by marble plaques,
marble crosses.

              Saprophages feeding for decades
on sweet sacrilegious carrion.

They were not plain sisters,
not blood sisters,
superior sisters.

The sharp green plumage of the Argentine parrot
disrupts my cataloguing.

Might we not posthumously
smell the damp dirt?

Monks chirp.


III

     Of all the redundancies, who forgot to introduce me to Myiopsitta
monachus monachus? Hark! The jovial redundancy.

     Suppose the mother superiors as my faculty. They would have taught
with pious rigor. Still, there would have been no taxonomy of the parrot.

     If only the damp earth could tell me more. If it could confirm to
me that the remains of these sisters were the key ingredients to the 
composition of the dirt beneath my feet.

     If only I could agree with myself! Hear me clearly, sisters.
     You are the eternal guests. I am still transitory.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Transitory Guest (Part 1)


In August I was encouraged by a friend. My friend David Shook who is a poet, film maker and editor asked me to submit a writing of mine and a translation of an Argentinean poet to the literary journal Bengal Lights. He had been invited as guest editor to fittingly partake in the publishing of their Guest Issue.  To my delight they accepted my writing and not the translation of the poem.The prompt was the following:

The Bengal Lights Guest Issue seeks answers to questions like: what constitutes an invitation? And when does one outstay their welcome? And when does a guest become a hostage?



In light of this prompt and along with the help of one of the Guest Editors of the autumn issue, I stumbled upon the idea of a transitory guest. The road to this idea began with the following poem by Roberto Juarroz. I selected the poem Me visitó una nube...  This particular poem plucked a chord in my self for a few reasons known and many unknown. In Juarroz's work, and specifically in this poem, I have found that he takes to task a search for acceptance of a transitory life. Also, and quite equally, he expresses through his poetry the importance of the question in order to continue on with hope. The way I see it, I must declare the things I know as personal truths, as arbitrary as their establishment may seem, and on the other hand question the great mysteries of life. It is not an either/or perspective, rather a both/and. This is one of the things I know that resonated within me when I first read this poem and that would later accompany me while writing my submission. My hope is the unknown, the mystery of the poem itself. In continuation you can find the poem and my personal translation of the same. Shortly, I will post my submission that was included in the Guest Issue.

Me visitó una nube... 
Por Roberto Juarroz


Me visitó una nube...                                            A cloud visited me...
Me visitó una nube.                                              A cloud visited me.
y me dejó al marcharse                                         And left me as it went away
su contorno de viento.                                           its contour  of wind.


Me visitó una sombra.                                         A shadow visited me.
Y me dejó al marcharse                                       And left me as it went away
el peso de otro cuerpo.                                         the weight of another body.


Me visitó una ráfaga de imagines.                       A gust of images visited me.
Y me dejó al marcharse                                        And left me as it went away
la irreligión del sueño.                                         the irreligion of the dream.


Me visitó una ausencia.                                       An absence visited me.
Y me dejó al marcharse                                       And left me as it went away
mi imagen en el tiempo.                                      my image in time.


Yo visito la vida.                                                 I visit life.
Le dejaré al marcharme                                       I will leave it as I am going away
la gracia de estos restos.                                      the grace of these remains.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

La línea mitre 23-01-2015

El vendedor ambulante 
que vende lupas portátiles.


La lupa de lectura, "de alta calidad."


Las palabras bien contempladas, 
Son dichas y cortadas. 

La ejecución es perfecta. 
La conciencia es ceguera.


Thursday, January 29, 2015

07-11-2014: Plaza Mariano Moreno

Murga of the Union, confrontational.
Those frontal french facades that shadow
the Revolutionary marches, the
flumes of minor causes.

A particular march to Congress
from Virrey Cevallos foretelling
that fleeting conclusions are fleeting.
Drums of technicolors and split 3 liter

Cunningtons and other soda bottles.
The Rhythms heed to the sips and
refuse to skip any beats.
The eternal bite of the choripan culminates


with the colectivo number 8. Its flanked
by the front lines of a fleet of orange school
buses. The moment is driven by assumption that the men have their
carnets, maybe a hand full of women too.

The babies maintained to "upa" by
the young mothers. The pibes horny
and huddled while the murga
sustains their hard-ons,

Shifty eyes wreak the notion that
there is too much to observe.
The bougie voices inside my head
proclaim a fleeting conclusion.

Its a nice day for a choripan, a coke,
and a trip for some fresh air. The plazas of
the city center invite great escapes.
This menial milieu is a dignified cause.