#m. leland oroquieta

[bombuspress]

From M. Leland Oroquieta’s piece, “A Selfie Within the Mythic and Domestic,” in Issue Three: Portrait/[self]-Portrait

[queenmobs]

MISFIT DOC: These days

the streets are running amok with thoughts of genocide; they have gone obese with memories of abuse, whippings, and lynchings, victims of the irreversible logic of history. Speech has alienated candor, and its egalitarian predilections.   Language is heaped with encampments armed for random offensives amidst skyscrapers, ever sentient in air-conditioned luxury to mitigate consciousness from scenes of bristling chaos.

*

The nine-to-five continues to survive on a carapace of rigid smiles and breakroom chit-chat, bustling with weekend plans, and fashion critiques of the usual social-media queens.   For a while, the surge of paperwork exudes a calm: indeed, an unsuspecting mutiny against bad news on the street, especially rumors of effigies and flags burned to satisfy a gluttony for defiance and symbolism. And as always, the bounciness of anonymity on crowded sidewalks after work, fornicates with diversions that make week-nights feel like weekends.

*

But the approaching roar of steel-wheels underground is a cue to decline invitations, for quality time at home. There are thick plots to consume, filled with winged creatures and their human slaves.  After that, the news: fat with stories of escape from territories gutted by arsenals of war. And then much later, the holy hour of planning to relocate where skies are unobstructed by competing heights of glass, steel, and protests:

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[eunoiareview]

Last Visit to Cinema Palacio

Last Visit to Cinema Palacio

A set of cracks announces the age of its walls, as though, in the end, interiority must reveal the narrow geometries of its veins, distilled in continuous corrugations we liken to the content of maps. The rhythmic sound of creaky seats that are now repositories of encounters, trysts, and numerous intimacies that satisfy the hedonistic proclivities of mandibles attuned to scents that unzip their…

[eunoiareview]

Happiness

used to be 3am cheeseburgers, shipwrecked in Diet Coke and swirls of attitude about the stripper at Club Predicament next door. We were always blown away by patterns that owned his thighs, tattoos of abstract horticulture that wrapped their fortitudes in myths. Your dead presidents loved to caress their pores, before burying them in the usual junction forged by aromas of sweat, of needy…