Birthed in the night’s sun of Los Angeles. A city where heat resigns in darkness and dust dances in light.

There too danced a poet amongst the pictures.

The poet spawned a dream.

He dreamed a home whose place is boundless. A home for those whose minds must collide and whose tongues burst with verse.

He called upon his close friends. He welcomed in the strangers.

And there was music and there was magic.

And there, at the very heart of it all, there was poetry.

The voices sung and the voices spoke. The listeners participated and the performers listened.

The poet’s name was Joseph and the event became “Sundays”

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More constant than a weekly gathering. More intimate than a community. More revelrous than a party. More celebratory than love and more alive than dawn.

 This band of mortals have advanced from land to land. From the disco glitter of Hollywood and Silver Lake, to the moving pixels of screens afar.

And whilst the futures of its physical realm remain eagerly untold, here on Medium in the form of this splinter journal, we hope to share with you, our dear readers, the works of this family aboard our capsule of experience.

♾️

Prepare for lines without limits and verse without rules. Prepare for stomach turning emotion and all encompassing love. Prepare for laughter. Prepare for the absurd.

Most of all DON’T prepare for poetry of the ordinary.