I listen to the rain fall hard and it doesn’t stop and I hope it means that the world is ending.
You turn towards meteor showers in August,
wishing yourself like that:
bright and burning wholly out.
When feeling finally comes it is
that falling, matter breaking away
from air, the sound
of crickets moving through the grass like fire—
and the strangely twisted metal
in the field that a child finds:
Then there’s the story of the Chinese sage,
in anger and despair, who cut his body away in pieces,
flung them into the lake.
Each one, becoming finned and whole, swims off.
Howard Zinn (via fuckyeahradicalquotes)
See: Germany - Israel - Palestine
Howard Zinn, “The Problem is Civil Disobedience” speech at Johns Hopkins University, November 1970 reprinted in Voices of a People’s History of the United States.
The spine of my copy of Voices is broken at this page (484), because this passage informs everything I do, everything I teach, everything I research and read and contextualize.
What a sad day.
Some words I would like to lay down on as though they were a bed of nails and imprint them in my skin. So I never forget.
always sounds like a dirty word to me.
What if the heart does not pale as the body wanes,
but is like the sun that blazes hotter each day
on these immense, perishing fields? What then?
(Desire is not the problem. This far south,
we are careful not to mistake seizures for love.)
He sits there bewildered in a clamp of light.
In the stillness, the sun grinds him clean.
We are writing a secret history of us on our skin.
Sex, a kiss that becomes a bite, dancing all night, conversation, secrets, laughter, drunk, hands knitted together:
these write invisible ink tattoos that remain
after my bruises fade
like patterns of crushed leaves on my skin.
I worry when I’m with another man,
I might think of you and my
skin will shine,
I won’t be able to hide it.
His body heat will illuminate your words.
“Whose sex and poetry is this,
staining your skin?”
“Who kept the map,
to untrace his steps?”
They look like claw marks on the most girl part of me, like someone pawed at me and left a scar. Like maybe all the people who’ve held me have left a mark. Hold me here, they say from my hips, kiss me inside my thighs, touch me softly on the sides of my breasts. I’ve had my share of insecurities but never with these; i love them for sticking with me, reminding me how long they’ve been around; the way the whole world stretches to accomodate a woman coming into herself. Little pink lines in her wake.
A ghost gum is whispering secrets to cicadas
about ancient ceremony
their chorus of timbals
is singing death, death, death
death layered upon death
like nymphs shedding their skin.
I am a cicada, digging through the dirt.
I have a curse on my tongue that even
the bush can’t answer.
I’m going to wash my heart in bleach,
then my bones,
white like ghost gum.
Soon, summer and fire will be here
and I don’t yet know
about this kind of black.
Any fool can get into an ocean
But it takes a Goddess
To get out of one.
What’s true of oceans is true, of course,
Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming
Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed
You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess
To get back out of them
Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly
Out in the middle of the poem
They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the
water hardly moves
You might get out through all the waves and rocks
Into the middle of the poem to touch them
But when you’ve tried the blessed water long
Enough to want to start backward
That’s when the fun starts
Unless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernatural
You’ll drown, dear. You’ll drown
Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth
But it takes a hero to get out of one
What’s true of labyrinths is true of course
Of love and memory. When you start remembering.
Stephen Colbert, talking about the threat of love to airport security (via smut-to-go)
I know what it is you
want from me
but you see
I cannot give it
I am hell
is a nice place to visit
but when you want to leave
you want to leave
when you speak to me
you converse with darkness
hold my hand
old bones rattle
when you kiss me
imagine kissing the skull of a saint
mouldering in a cave
large balloon of spirit
flown imagine taste of white bone
reposed in darkness
sweet bursts of pomegranate
on your tongue
with promises they have made
the longer you wait for me
the more the world suffers