February 2010
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“…the only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.”
– Chuck Palahniuk (Invisible Monsters)
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“You need kissing, badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed and...”
– Rhett Butler (via kissez)
Yes. Yes. And again, yes.
(via barelyknittogether)
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“The first kiss is stolen by the man; the last is begged by the woman.”
– H.L. Mencken (via barelyknittogether)
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How many times and how many years: have I lit candles, rung bells, made offerings at the tombs of Saints, waited for shooting stars, felt marble whisper under my fingertips, spun prayer wheels and tied red string, for the same hopeless wish?
I have buried a prayer inside my heart for you.
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late afternoon: cattle lie in the billboard shade - Randy Brooks
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Lents District, Matthew Dickman
Whenever I return a fight breaks out in the park, someone buys a lottery ticket, steals a bottle of vodka, lights a cigarette underneath the overpass. I-5 rips the neighborhood in half the way the Willamette rips the city in half, it sounds like the ocean if I am sitting alone in the backyard looking up at the lilac. This is where white kids lived and listened to Black Sabbath while they beat the...
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All-American Poem, Matthew Dickman
I want to peel off a hundred-dollar bill and slap it down on the counter. You can pick out a dress. I’ll pick out a tie: polka-dots spinning like disco balls. Darling, let’s go two-stepping in the sawdust at the Broken Spoke. Let’s live downtown and go clubbing. God save hip-hop and famous mixed drinks. Let’s live in a cardboard box. Let’s live in a loft above Chelsea, barely human,...
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“Boy, these conservatives are really something, aren’t they? They’re all in favor...”
– George Carlin (via ellephanta) (via xharekx33) (via sebaxxxtian) (via bradicalmang) (via tawny) (via tblant)
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Girdling, Victoria Chang
Nine women claim a baby boy in Sri Lanka. One will eventually win, perhaps the loudest or the one with a sack of rupees. The boy will grow a beard and wonder about the other eight who quarreled over him. He will wonder about the one who threatened to kill herself. He will move through life, deeper and deeper into the trees, until suddenly, a clearing—a single ficus in the center of a field, its...
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“This sickness, to express oneself. What is it?”
– Jean Cocteau
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“Words are a heavy thing…they weigh you down. If birds talked, they couldn’t fly.”
– Christian Williams (via jessicaapgar) (via corvidae)
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leaving us to find our own light last of the sun - Marian Olson
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Proof, Victoria Chang
They say my great uncle read foreign books in a mud house in Nanking,
plowed his twenty acres, listened to rare birds, disregarded
the willow’s hush. One day he knelt in the street, sign around his neck
that said: Traitor. Little Red Book spread like wax on his back, even
birds spun their heads around. He labored with peasants, hands turned rough.
He must have had eyes like golden orbs. ...
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Love Poem as Eye Examination, Victoria Chang
The room became a raven until a white fire lit the wall. The doctor’s breath alarmed and I was suddenly inside this bird, looking out of its eye. O doctor, why do you set traps, map out what I see, cage my broken eyes, make clear the branch that was fire, the geese that were windmills rotating? Which is better: one or two, three or four? What if I don’t need choices? What if I...
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Holiday Parties, Victoria Chang
Every holiday my parents search for a cure for eating too much for me. Their six steps to flawless skin turn to seven, eight, nine, when they see mine. My sister and I parade through parties, looking for little pies to nibble on. The nearly-thirty and still single crowd collects, watching our watches, spreads of neatly lined figs, punch, boring conversation, dish of spirits, a rug I keep tripping...
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“I’ve always been crazy but it’s kept me from going insane.”
– Waylon Jennings (via claytoncubitt)
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The End Of The World, João Cabral de Melo Neto
translated by James Wright
At the end of the melancholy world men read the newspapers. Men indifferent to eating oranges that flame like the sun. They gave me an apple to remind me of death. I know that cities telegraph asking for kerosene. The veil I saw flying fell in the desert. No one will write the final poem about this particular twelve o’clock world. Instead of the last judgment,...
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When you become the disease and not the fix, that you consume me so that I end up on a drip just to flush you out of my veins, that already my heart is dying, like it knows the future - but I still try to pretend that it isn’t true.
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January 2010
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“Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.”
– Pancho Villa’s last words (via liars) (via unicornology)
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“He is fleeing neither guilt, nor shame, but the simple emptiness that attends...”
– Guy Rundle
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