Marco North: the falling boy (too bitter a fruit)
He was one of many trying to escape, grabbing onto the plane thinking they would let him in.
Marco North: A Pregnant Moon
A backyard. The low chirp of cicadas. The sweet smell of burning wood and wet earth, and a certain hushed silence. All as foreign as a trip to Mars.
Marco North: Of Fountains and Wells
water holds spirits…water can be holy, and sacred.
Marco North: After the Circus Left Town
There is nothing like the righteous anger of a true New Yorker.
Marco North: The Stairs
Downstairs, there is a pile of kopeks next to the garbage bins. A ruble is far less than a penny, and there are one hundred kopeks to every ruble…. The kopeks are not there to be thrown away. They are for someone who actually needs them. Three hundred of them would buy a potato or two.
Marco North: Landyshi (their ocean)
At night, the trees bend hard. The crows are awake, chattering their secret language in the darkness.
Marco North: The Street of Flowers
Two weeks ago, I spied those splotches of blood against the white concrete, the roses scattered across the sidewalk. I imagined it was a fist fight or a knifing at … Continue reading
Marco North: Moscow 2018 — The Migrant
I load the tiny Leica at the kitchen table, the CL that almost fits in my palm. There are piles of broken asphalt downstairs and the remnants of a flash … Continue reading
Vox Populi 