Black horizons, come up.
Black horizons, kiss me.
That is all; so many lies; killing so cheap;
babies so cheap; blood, people so cheap; and
land high, land dear; a speck of the earth
costs; a suck at the tit of Mother Dirt so
clean and strong, it costs; fences, papers,
sheriffs; fences, laws, guns; and so many
stars and so few hours to dream; such a big
song and so little a footing to stand and
sing; take a look; wars to come; red rivers
Black horizons, come up.
Black horizons, kiss me.
Trees are swaying to the ebb and flow of time. In a small room in a basement, a rug is unrolled and a boy and girl get comfortable with each other. The room is filled with dark items. Soon, a lie will be born. The lie will be held briefly by the boy. Then, he will give it to the girl. This exchange of words will continue for days, weeks, years. Finally, the truth will emerge as a small bird. The truth will fly away as a small bird, and the truth will build a nest in the shape of a small basement room. Isn’t this the way it always ends? With words as fragile as small blue eggs?
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees going nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
We’re at the German Club and I’m a bit drunk and happy, but also sad two of the best blokes I know are leaving Australia soon.
Me: “Look how slanty my eyes are in this photo.”
Thom: “Are you allowed to say that?”
I ended it months ago, but sometimes I dream about him and in the dream I still believe in the promise of our love. In the dream we are walking into the future together. The future is a white room where he is still gentle with me, like sunlight. I forget how complicated my desire and my heart is and I am unmade into something simple for him. He is healed and ready for me. When I wake up I break my own heart again.
“Responding to the call to “carry the weight together,” fellow students helped Emma Sulkowicz, the Columbia senior who is lugging her mattress everywhere while her rapist remains on campus, carry it from the courtyard to her class yesterday.
The collective carry was organized by students and alumni who want ”to help Emma carry the weight of the physical mattress, give her and other survivors of sexual assault in our community a powerful symbol of our support and solidarity, and show the administration that we stand united in demanding better policies designed to end sexual violence and rape culture on campus.”
As Alexandra wrote, the idea of “carrying the weight together” holds much symbolic resonance — not just as a way of lightening the burden on survivors but also by highlighting the collective sacrifice required to eliminate it. “If we all helped carry the weight of injustice, we could not bear it,” she wrote. “And so we would finally stop tolerating what we’ve been content to force others to carry alone.” And it makes a damn powerful visual too.”
Shooting a .22 is perversely
gentle. There is no real
kickback, it is simply an insistent
digging in the shoulder,
trailed by the sour smell of burnt
gunpowder, shells sputtering
from the magazine in a ticking
of brass. When I buy a pass
to the basement rifle range,
my instructor advises me
to conceal my gun on the train
in a guitar case. Aiming at paper
torsos, I see it is foolish to wait
for winter days to lengthen.
How weak a dependence
on light is; like a body easily
betrayed, it can kill a man.
In the Persian miniature,
Sol in Leo, the lion is its own
composite of animals
eaten by the lion: plaited
in the mane, woven in the tail,
folded inside haunches like
contortionists in an open—
walled box of hide. Uncover
enough of what you are
and the world won’t think
to look for anything else.
Ha’a Keaulana runs across the ocean floor with a 50 pound boulder. They do this as training to survive the massive surf waves of winter. She learned her amazing skills from her dad, legendary waterman #briankeaulana and her Grandpa, #Buffalo. I was very humbled to learn from the Hawaiians who have salt water running through their veins. Mahalo Nui Loa. Please stay tuned for our upcoming story on the Hawaiian surfing culture.
Shared of @natgeo
Strongwoman training UNDER THE SEA.
\ \ n. 1. Auburn, gold, and blossom cherry: our fingers, two rings and my tongue along your ear. / Electric lighter, gas stove good time/ Praying for lightning. 2. Man made, made man, fire. 3. This woman’s need for the family lost to the Hutu tribe/ This man’s efforts to be her lost village/ Inferno. 4. A bump barring in the words I don’t love you anymore as he kisses her belly for the Christmas card photo. 5. The end of an argument in the emergency room 6. What we lost in the flames. \ \ v. 1. To nurse, cure with promises, a cocktail of words, each word mixed in to strengthen the other. / Marry me anyway. 2. To link by umbilical cord./ To cut the cord and hit the thing’s bottom so we hear it breathe. 3. To hear silence instead.
I am a thing to do. A window
broken by my own head flying
through. I was pushed or I wasn’t.
You should walk away, but you
can’t. You can’t trust me. Don’t.
Love me. Call me sweetheart
like you mean it. Slide the black
leather from the loop. I’m on
my knees because I’ve fallen
like a dead man in a grave
for you. This is my face darkening
where the glass claimed my cheek,
me smashed into it, me taking it
like a pro. This is my hair, unbrushed
and Dear-God all over. I don’t love
myself and I never will, thighs, clapping,
making room inside
another room. Unbuckle
this breath for me, would you?
I have a heart amongst other things
nobody seems to know how to pull
the beat from. Give me your hand.
I’ll fold it into a hammer. In my ribs,
send it forth. Rattle me loose. It’s been
so long. Let whatever moves, move.
I talk too much. I cannot tell a liar
from a preacher, so I tell you
what you want: I’m saved & sick
of this world, safe in God’s arms. God,
give me this world in an honest man’s
arms. An ego is hard to stroke. Or easy if
you know how to quiet it, let a man feel
his burn in your throat. I talk too much.
I’m sorry I’m not sorry enough. I’ll dance
all over you. O liar. Preacher. Daddy-
o, your tongue lashing is never hard
or fast enough. When you lie still,
stroking your chalice, the quiet makes me
retch. I am a lone dandelion in a field,
waiting. Come. Blow me to bits. Still.
You’ll die this way, saved by the lies
that burn like the ice water & alcohol
Mama sits me in to break the fevers
our silences brought. I’ll die thrashing,
telling any body all my secrets.