L. F. Morgado

Won’t you come along with me
To the Mississippi
We’ll take the boat to the land of dreams

No Place To Hide

Glenn Greenwald on the NSA, internet, journalism, democracy, privacy and surveillance:

1) The Internet has long been heralded as an unprecedented instrument of democratization and liberalization, even emancipation. But in the eyes of the US government, this global network and other types of communications technology threaten to undermine American power … The US government sees what everyone else in the world does, including its own population, while no one sees its actions. It is the ultimate imbalance, permitting the most dangerous of all human conditions: the exercise of limitless power with no transparency or accountability … What does limitless surveillance mean for us as individuals, in our own lives?

2) Only when we believe that nobody else is watching us do we feel free - safe - to truly experiment, to test boundaries, to explore new ways of thinking and being, to explore what it means to be ourselves.  What made the Internet so appealing was precisely that it afforded the ability to speak and act anonymously, which is so vital to individual exploration … It is in the realm of privacy where creativity, dissent, and challenges to orthodoxy germinate … Regardless of how surveillance is used or abused, the limits it imposes on freedom are intrinsic to its existence.

3) The true measure of a society’s freedom is how it treats its dissidents and other marginalized groups, not how it treats good loyalists. Even in the world’s worst tyrannies, dutiful supporters are immunized from abuses of state power … We shouldn’t want a society where the message is conveyed that you will be left alone only if you mimic the accommodating behavior and conventional wisdom of an establishment columnist. 

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But how can I ever go traveling again
When I know I’ll just keep remembering again
When I know I’ll just be gathering again
Reminders to break my heart?


I am the spring, the holy ground,
the endless seed of mystery,
the thorn, the veil, the face of grace,
the brazen image, the thief of sleep,
the ambassador of dreams, the prince of peace.
I am the sword, the wound, the stain.
Scorned transfigured child of Cain.
I rend, I end, I return.
Again I am the salt, the bitter laugh.
I am the gas in a womb of light, the evening star,
the ball of sight that leads that sheds the tears of Christ
dying and drying as I rise tonight.



I just wanted to come here, to come here and say something, say something important, something that you said. You said we should say things and do things. Not lie, not keep things back … these sorts of things that tear people up. Well, I’m gonna do that. I’m gonna do what you said, Claudia. I can’t let this go. I can’t let you go. Now, you … you listen to me now. You’re a good person. You’re a good and beautiful person and I won’t let you walk out on me. And I won’t let you say those things … those things about how stupid you are and this and that. I won’t stand for that. You want to be with me … then you be with me. You see?


(Claudia looks at the camera, with tears in her eyes, and smiles. She does.)

Tudo o que pontua nossa escuridão.

What the living do


Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. 
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. 
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and I can’t turn it off. 
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those 
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. 
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want 
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, 
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:

I am living, I remember you.

marie howe


1) I always imagined I would write a book, if only a small one, that would carry one away, into a realm that could not be measured or even remembered 

2) It is one of those inexplicable things. For it is a service one enters without expectation or design. Where one, lost in thought, may feel a tap upon the shoulder and find oneself far flung, in a swirl of dust, swung about and brought to a sudden halt. 

3) The only thing you can count on is change.

4) And I know soon that the sky will split

And the planets will shift,

Balls of jade will drop and existence will stop

5) Time passes and with it certain sensations. Yet once in a while the magic of the field and all that happened there surfaces. Not necessarily in nature but within the leaves of a book, the painting of Millet or the tones of a Corot. Wandering through the long gallery hall, in a light decidedly Dutch, it comes to me. I see myself alight upon the meadow, and feel as I feltclear, unspeakable joy.

The Ponds

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

And Night Illuminated the Night


I watch you holding one cut stem,
three thorns, no blossom—

night, a shade of red
your teeth trace on my lips.

Everything I touch and all I am
is thirsting.

When the rain falls 
it won’t ask who you are—

a statue, or the blind man 
who sees by feeling.

Rain won’t forgive us,
it doesn’t know our names.

alex dimitrov