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BIRDS ARE NOT THE ONLY MUSIC
BIRDS ARE NOT THE ONLY MUSIC  A name, if not heavy, still of a certain heft, but less jagged than affection: a suitable anchor for this good earth. Its freight & pestilence  (with promise’s promises intermixed): Josephine, Blondena, Ola-Bell, Herbert, Rufus. Borne in indefinite directions, all. ... Rangi McNeil is a native of Laurinburg, North…
A FIELD GUIDE TO THE UNEXPECTED
How could I mistake the scent of anxious-approaching-angry skunk for that of cheap marijuana? A scent I called skunk weed, but Vida says that term is reserved for the good shit. And rules are rules (like carpe diem or don’t write checks with your mouth that your ass can’t cash.) The future differs from all…
NOTE FROM A DOOMED CIVILIZATION
NOTE FROM A DOOMED CIVILIZATION The Americans have broken all             Treaties, refused to be part of the World Court They are their own Carte Blanche to massacre and destroy,  Beyond   All judgment...        vampire face insect eyes Smirk  of the Blood Sucker ===  Inside Capital Inside a White house  A conversation of murderers Armed with nervous breakdowns    the…
Noor Miyan
Be it Victoria brand eye-liner  Or the kohl of the heroine Writambhara  The purest of these were only made by Noor Miyan  Or so my grandmother believed!  She’d always buy some from him.  One thin line of darkness she’d draw  And her eyes would threaten like rain clouds  Rivers would merge in them  Those eyes would flow into oceans  Wherein we children would gaze  And see it all! My grandmother blessed him and his kohl  It gifted her with youth in old age  And light to pierce needles with thread.  I often wanted to tell her she was Sukanya  And Noor Miyan her Chyawan Rishi  His kohl the elixir of her eyes.  Her eyes were not eyes, but irises.  His kohl, the gift of nourishment. And Noor Miyan went away to Pakistan!  Why? They say he had no one here.  Who were we? Why did he leave?  Without telling us,   Without letting grandmother know?  Why did he go away to Pakistan? Now there’s no dark kohl, nor lit eyes.  My grandmother has left for the banks   From where she had arrived.  She’d married and travelled across the river  She’s burnt and has travelled across it again.  And as I scatter her ashes on this river  It flows into her eyes, to meet the ashes  That darken into Noor Miyan’s kohl. And that’s the last time  I gifted my grandmother’s eyes  With Noor Miyan’s kohl. This poem is part of Naked Punch Issue 18. To buy the issue click here:  http://nakedpunch.com/site/issues/16 
Indigenizing International Law from an Inverse Legal Anthropology
Considering the philosophical, political, and artistic concerns that Naked Punch have been introducing over the years in order to unveil the plurality of philosophical languages that populate the world – echoing the interaction between Bruno Mazzoldi and Jacques Derrida – and projecting such a deconstructive endeavour as the interlocution of different philosophical traditions as equals,…