By Bruno Talerico
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When do words change from shapes on a page to feelings? When does ink on paper take on a separate reality? When do hieroglyphs translate to concepts and ideas? When do characters evolve into CHARACTERS? How does recognition mature into cognition? © 2026 Bruno Talerico 230/365
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We don’t choose our childhood; it’s just what happens to us. The space between habit and resistance is where life exists. Between order and chaos lies a vast zone. Life happens within those labyrinthine trails. Childhood isn’t just those few years; it’s the opinions we form about them later. As adults, we choose: prison of…
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or Why Days Seem To Go By Faster Now To a newborn child, a single hour seems like a lifetime because it is. After a day, that first hour seems shorter because now an hour is one-twenty-fourth of their lifetime. At age seventy, a single hour is less than one-six-hundred-thousandth of my lifetime and therefore…
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All narratives are lies. Something can be made sacred by the attention we grant it. That is why I ignore the gods and focus on nature. I thought I loved god. After all, for as long as I remember, his ‘love’ was crammed down my throat if I didn’t love him, there was hell to…
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Bolting storm. Night defined by flashes of insight. Truth seems capricious. Is it something different to a honeybee or a coyote? Fulfilling, foreboding, or light in flight, like fairies dusting the blue sky. Fact becomes fiction, Fantasy masquerades as thundering reality. Beneath gray clouds, realities fade silently screaming. Unbidden truths capriciously lying in wait. ©…
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fragrant house cabbage soup simmering comfort © 2026 Bruno Talerico 225/365
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There’s a shelf in the closet of my mind. On that shelf are rows of small brown boxes. Each box contains a death. My son, Joseph John, whose liver and kidney may still be alive somewhere. Uncles, cousins, parents, grandmas and grandpas, two brothers-in-law. On another shelf—more boxes. Deaths of strangers who visited me in…
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Saint Augustine called poetry the wine of devils. It is no surprise that some people want to escape the insincerity of our civilization, the insanity of “isms”. Constrained by the practical, our minds tend to become so inert or so restless that they need to take a few scalps. To avoid atrocity, humanity drinks the…
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Time passes like a river flowing under a bridge. Days become smaller, months merge into years. Rapids swirl, liquid power loosening rock and debris. Time passes like a river during a flash flood. Birthdays disappear, more behind than ahead approaching the precipice. Irresistible current pushing toward the final cascade. Torrents, streams, droplets plunging beyond the…
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Walking in the morning sun warm on one side cool on the opposite. A dragonfly invades the space between my body and the flat darkness cast on pavement. Her wings darken and cool as she flutters in that moveable place. My shadow has height, length and depth. My shadow has volume. My shadow is a…
