February 2012
5 posts
Misgivings
“Perhaps you’ll tire of me,” muses my love, although she’s like a great city to me, or a park that finds new ways to wear each flounce of light and investiture of weather. Soil doesn’t tire of rain, I think, but I know what she fears: plans warp, planes explode, topsoil gets peeled away by floods. And worse than what we can’t control is what we could; those...
January 2012
1 post
53
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living whatever they sing is better than to know and if men should not hear them men are old may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple for even if it’s sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young and may myself do nothing usefully and love yourself so more than truly...
December 2011
5 posts
Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie
When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb When you think you’re too old, too young, too smart or too dumb When yer laggin’ behind an’ losin’ yer pace In a slow-motion crawl of life’s busy race No matter what yer doing if you start givin’ up If the wine don’t come to the top of yer cup If the wind’s got you sideways with with one hand...
Flight
for K. Like a glum cricket the refrigerator is singing and just as I am convinced that it is the only noise in the building, a pot falls in 2B. The neighbors on both sides of me suddenly realize that they have not made love to their wives since 1947. The racket multiplies. The man downhall is teaching his dog to fly. The fish are disgusted and beat their heads blue against the cold aquarium. I...
November 2011
24 posts
Watch
“There is a time…when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you...”
– Mario Savio (via colewardell)
Turkeys
One November a week before Thanksgiving the Ohio river froze and my great uncles put on their coats and drove the turkeys across the ice to Rosiclare where they sold them for enough to buy my grandmother a Christmas doll with blue china eyes I like to think of the sound of two hundred turkey feet running across to Illinois on their way to the platter the scrape of their nails and my great uncles...
Falling Leaves and Early Snow
In the years to come they will say, “They fell like the leaves In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine November has come to the forest, To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen. The year fades with the white frost On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows, Where the deer tracks were black in the morning. Ice forms in the shadows; Disheveled maples hang over the water; Deep gold sunlight...
tabs open on my computer when I opened it this...
how to find paint on an apple—i just wanna draw :)
where the fuck is paint on apple
what if I just want to paint a picture
doodle buddy
help im so drunk
When the war is over
When the war is over We will be proud of course the air will be Good for breathing at last The water will have been improved the salmon And the silence of heaven will migrate more perfectly The dead will think the living are worth it we will know Who we are And we will all enlist again
W.S. Merwin
En Gallop
This place is damp and ghostly I am already gone And the halls were lined with the disembodied And dustly wings, which fell from flesh Gasplessly And I go where the trees go And I walk from a higher education For now and for hire And it beats me, but I do not know It beats me but I do not know I do not know Palaces and storm clouds The rough, straggly sage And the smoke And the way it will all...
Watchhttp://pitchfork.com/tv/special-presentation/1827-girls/3005-vomit/#player
Science, Skin and Ink →
Great Plains
As children we lay on the ground and let the wind Flow over us. On our backs we gazed up at The deep-seated sky and felt dust darken our eyes. On our stomachs we gripped the earth and heard The ground groan. When we returned to our homes That huddled beside a few spindly trees, We felt abandoned: any edifice seemed false. The Technicolor sunsets ridiculed us. How to stand up? How to take the wind...
October 2011
18 posts
Brethren
A woodpecker hammers On the gutter of a nursing home Where the war cripple sits In a wheelchair by the gate. The windows are wide open, But no one ever speaks here, Neither about the crazy bird, Nor about that other war.
Charles Simic
From Out the Cave
When you have been at war with yourself for so many years that you have forgotten why, when you have been driving for hours and only gradually begin to realize that you have lost the way, when you have cut hastily into the fabric, when you have signed papers in distraction, when it has been centuries since you watched the sun set or the rain fall, and the clouds, drifting overhead, pass as flat as...
Changing Genres
I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping, another 75 of what you think staring out a window. I don’t care about the plot although I suppose there will have to be one, the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent seas, danger of decommission in spite of constant war, time in...
