http://slow.writerscafe.org/Jason_Morales The original writings of author J en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1775968784 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 I cut myself off from a world of friends and hope some days. That I should believe in the notion of forever and in the unity of years spent pondering upon the fragility of connectedness. I raise my cup to an emptiness I feel within: this is surety in the face of seeming calamity .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/2175915/ Rambling. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/2170625/ First proper thing I've written in months. Which came out in a total rush. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1396159/ there is silence, slow and sinful, the flavour of you I dream of night after night, this etymology of desire cross-twined with the effortless and sublime. it has been months, months of sweat and sleep, the sweat and sleep of a blind boy clinging to moths,&nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1345229/ my definition of real slowly erodes into apple-pie crumble} how to forget how to hold onto passion and its effects its strangulation and the way we perceive how it's all a patterna reflection of how and why there is logic and reason&nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1342404/ to reach out and  compare stories of  how we came to this  place, unbidden but for the draw of like souls  and like minds  exploring the dance  of laughter and tragedy in a circle, always a circle ever-expanding, sewn  with deft fingers  .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1340225/ an emptiness. perhaps it's a realisation to want the holy. to feel the holy. as if this conundrum can exist and i can be mercurial in my hope, my dreams, my fire, my passion to be; oh, just to be and forget. that there is anger in my words to you and to that other you transposed .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1337388/ there is something wild in how fortune loses its boneswhen backed up against hills of the umber and sienna of my home traced in the spirals of longing and the disturbance of sleepless fretting over the material focus I've unlearnt and learnt all over again so .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1337386/ a reminder of all    that is real, i profess      to know nothing of this eternal view     outside with you, it is only you      i find comfort in     in becoming, this w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1191042/ Perhaps they say it's easier to write when one's witnessed death, not this slow curl of yellow archways and young boys risking limbs up infant trees. If only Vikings were here to cause fear and full disclosure: of one's apparent sins, echoed in chapel light and trembling fin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1186533/ Twin piece to 'Antares', I guess. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1186529/         formless belonging                       the arterial roots of wind              &nb.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1163700/ i am still a child, uncertain. pendulums, the way of shared and unbroken love. about me and this other me, fickle and undying, let them read of stones and leaves underneath the passing of strangers.how i come to this place, knowing there is only the quiet of my heart, t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1163699/ wandering expanse: the warmth of unspoken words that could be naked in their freedom to express calamity or desire:pure love that keeps on rolling and the inward gaze of knowing there is only you. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1163698/ to will flocks of birds into the air to break their bones and watch their centres crumplethe wheel and distorted actionthe snap and shadow of a life reborninto a moment which breeds another moment to confide in http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1163697/ This is my world of flightless sleepconjoined harmonies and the stale air of a room wallowing in the darkness of my youth. *These memories are candles, tapered and unlit, stars and yet more stars beacons to grasp between my fingertips. *I hold y.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1065517/ Wrote this an hour ago at 6am, having not slept yet. Kind of shows, I think. Terribly unsure about it, yet secretly relieved I managed to bash something out for once. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1049648/ remember the calm blue light crested over the mountainside dappled and quickly turning to silver. how night reflects a post-mortem desire: scalpel to an awaiting incision, leaves sloughing as an autumnal gift, a basket of prayers and free-fall longing plumbing the .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1046113/ a confession of violetsand a storm in halfmoon bay. how to saythis closeness defiesall attempts atdefinition.*perhaps it is youin this ruin of my bodymoments according to need and temptationlight suffused intoa prism of sharingand the sorrowful joy of freedom.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1046111/                                                    how                               &nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/1045523/ presume to say all indifference is shallow or that closeness breeds a certain shade of suffering held to the light, no microscope or firm thesis gives any fuller clarity than the language of hope ripened by the rays of the sun, cherry-burnt, these arms are in tune .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/874757/ that everything should fall into place sideways, a furtive glance and what could be's in silence a virtuous companion. gather leaves with haiku written in its veins. spring is an empress, an eternal face. oblivion, a far-away earthquake for believers to q.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/874597/ Still, I confess there is much more to unearth and understand about certain connotations - the ability to breathe when cold envelops - the span of fingers broken to fit- the sure melody of grace when it overcomes the source of whatever pain it took to state the overwhel.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/793190/ I give you silence, solace The burst of a Sunday spent in sleepy reflection, the city's skyline Traced in frost and the freedom from touch which inhibits, is drawn to Covet that which it cannot be through a star's alignment foretelling Grace and mystery: the P.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/756145/ if, as tomorrow promises, fulfillment will be measured by both joy and sorrow, this is how my unborn children should quench their unformed instincts after me to sing and dance within a storm, finessing the clouds with articulations meant when no one else is around to di.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/756144/ She becomes the shadow you are tempted to hold and show the sun to as a barrel-chested sky of mourning departs, cirrus feathers of orangeblossom giving way to a freedom found in the sophistry of revelation. *A cup half-drained and stowed away beyond the w.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/742474/ The firmament above, the Southern Cross wrapped up in my infancy, fifty miles to Pukeoware's undulating hills, the merest mention of macrocarpa and I am transported back when all was transparently still, comfortable, the smooth feel of warm eggs nestled amongst hay and .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/730046/ What dreams, stilled by night's solace and the inflections flinching from words unspoken, freedom unwritten in the distance between two days ago and now, summer too long gone, the city a straining shadow of emptiness disguised as faces I hurriedly know, as bodies torn over the sa.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/730042/ To be certain of this, I must define fate and its parameters and how it urges to be nostalgic when hope deserts the mind. I must speak plainly. I must converge and not distort this figurative cosmopolitan sense of a seven day reversal of all that I've tried to combine. Lux, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/730038/ a tiny sun within the folds of your dress, simply made, afforded scant decoration. these mountains hold no secrets beyond the art of rivers searching for the next bend, the downward rush, alluvial and well-spent. in the eclipse of your throat, harmony is transparent. in.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/730033/ Imagination is a silly place. And I needed to post something not as emo as my previous ones, I think. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/705451/ From a different part of my life. I'm still, after all these years, a bit sensitive about this one. How emo. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/705445/ Another one I'd almost forgotten about. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/705441/ Found this buried somewhere. Written a lifetime ago, it seems. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/705430/ I don't know anymore. About what poetry is supposed to mean or sound like. I guess that's freeing in a way, to be able to entirely forget. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/679311/ Catholic poetesses are bad for your health. I swear. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/669673/ Written last January. "Cor ad cor loquitur" translates to "Heart speaks to heart." http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/669672/ I don't see you in me, in the dust-sheaths covering this room we choose to inhabit for one night spent wondering at our differences, the A to B simplicity which we connote as fallacy, a dying moon imploding or just losing its gravitational attraction, the five minutes until a cir.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/665801/ Old. Confessional. Part 1 and 2, kinda. But not really. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/663000/ I exchange sleepless oceans with you, many you's, all in one disordered evening where everything feels right not to make sense in any way, as if this disconnection is somehow a holy fragmentfrom a wise man who sailed under the stars centuries ago, to escape attention, conversation, th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/662997/ there's endless truth in eyes clouded over, looking away as if you'd catch this and smile. it's incense and pearls on a fine day. it's fingers outstretched, searching for divinity in flesh and communion in dreaming escapades. a house of cards, as always, toppling, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/650205/ To lose faith daily upon the inanimate and easily destroyed,of the diaphanous and frail fingers I remember from ten years ago, and why I've not seen fit to follow your call. You know Florence has always whispered; Barcelona, maybe, an epiphany of paella and fragrant dancing,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/650201/ I grasp for a beginning to this headlong dream buried in nervousness and a never-ending confession given only to shimmering. Of night and the soft melody of words precious and precociously open, the not-quite-painted veneer of so many cities washed under my version of the apocaly.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/648167/ a form of retrospective, moon-eyed, believing yet disbelieving at once, at the mercurial, bittersweet temptations of mind and body and lips, of sugar and spice and all that fits with my assumption of eternal, orchestral: the fusion of experience in devotion, of mary magdalene&nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/645898/ Haven't been on this for forever, it seems. A quick scribble written moments ago, nothing more. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/622800/ A measure of your loss that you would stand there counting the sixteen years you've passed over, a handkerchief of sapphires from a beloved who died. You've never named him or sung his stories, his presence a muted guide to whatever house he built inside to capture sky. Only.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/537409/ Time grazes her fingers politely―an arc, a shadow, and all is still, all will unfold. Excess, in demeaning oneself to empty promises whispered at three in the morning, or just past. As if belonging should have a place when stuck half a world away, and all one wants is a firm bod.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/537407/ Autobiographical in many ways. It's been forever since I posted here. So, um, there you go. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/532501/ Lots of happenings, all combined? I guess, yes. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/496190/ Catalonia personified�in a buried rhymes sonnet, I guess. About time I posted something here again, I figured. Eh. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/Jason_Morales/478456/