Friday, February 27, 2015

People often asked him which of all the creatures encountered in his many years as a hunter and dweller, in far-away places of Africa, he found most impressive. Always he answered that it would have to be a bird of some kind. This never failed to surprise them, because people are apt to be dazzled by physical power, size, frightfulness, and they expected him to say an elephant, lion, buffalo or some other imposing animal. But he stuck to his answer; there was nothing more wonderful in Africa than its birds. I asked why precisely. He paused and drew a circle with his finger in the red sand in front of him before saying that it was for many reasons, but in the first place because birds flew. He said it in such a way that I felt I had never before experienced fully the wonder of birds flying. 

     – Laurens Van Der Post, from The Heart of the Hunter

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

lunch at the Wawa/jerk off

Welcome to the rip tide. Welcome to the bruise on your ribs. Gums bleeding?

Try this.

Pretend yourself an antelope.

A casually knotted sweatshirt adds a breezy touch to a dramatic gown. 

I can't leave what would become of the bookshelf.

Start with a primer, which evens texture and contains golden micropigments. 

What's for dinner?

And just like that, the wall falls down.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

from "Little Song" by Rowan Ricardo Phillips

...Who doesn't love it when the bass
Doesn't hide? When you can feel the trumpet peel
Old oil and spit from deep down the empty
Pit of a note or none or few? So don't
Give up on it yet: the scenario.
You know that it's just as tired of you
As you are of it. Still, there's much more to it
Than that. It does not not get you quite wrong.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

Requiem for the Open Tab

Feb 16, 2003 piper
You've gone incognito.

x                       x                           x                    x                 x                                         X

Monarch butterfly endang
When the marginalized are sa

Restore Session                  x

  •  1939- Frida Kahlo and baby deer
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  • "Fifty Shades of Grey" Review -- The New Yorker

You can try:

  • Starting an entirely new browsing session

Monday, February 16, 2015

highly sensitive people

I mean come the fuck on. 

"Make a pact to better our planet and we'll give you a free eco-tote."

In other news, war is peace.

In other news, all signs no signifieds.

In other news, your kindness will cost you your job.

Baudrillard you dog.

It tells me I'm silly to care about being a good person. 
What a relief. I'll just sit here laughing at the person paid to pretend that caring is lame.

At least cowgirl horse camp starts soon.


Oh great, we're back to the crying again.

On occasion I've failed to acknowledge this.

I'm not sure if sleeping in the same bed is something that roommates do then again on occasion I myself have done it. I suppose just like any other word roommate is what you make it.

If I stare at him long enough maybe he'll give me a bite of that coconut yogurt.

I won't count them if you will.

I see your gaslight shining from up here behind the lamp on the third floor. I see its ashen pall, the putridity of Green #40. I pull the cord.


I want a revolutionary kind of love.
By that I mean I don't want to put cages around each other.

I want to say how was your weekend and I hope you have a great night. On occasion I want to be comfortable using exclamation points.

I want to take your fingers into my mouth and suck them.


There is a 90 percent chance of snow tonight.

Here's the thing: I am all upturned.

I refuse to let the kindness run out of me.

The Wilson Chronicles Part III

Nearly every time I lie down Wilson finds me, all 9.6 pounds of him, ready for cuddles. He has no qualms of rejection. He climbs aboard and waits to be kissed.

Here are a few of Wilson's middle names:

His Highliness III
Wild Man

Wilson isn't concerned with the weather, or disrespectful coworkers, or having a lousy job. He has his needs: canned chicken, cod & tuna, water dripping from the bathroom sink. Play time. Cuddles.

On occasion he'll also spend time in the closet. Or crouched on the porch, practicing his hunting, if squirrels or birds are around. If you're not a chicken or a cod or a tuna or water dripping or one of his favorite toys (there's Birdy, Red Fuzzy Thingy, That String, Catnip Everdeen, Mr. Fish...), if you're not cuddling or an accessory to squirrel hunting or closet exploration, then Wilson may not have need for you. He is a cat who knows what he wants. No dawdling.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

ham, peanut butter, sandwich

If you come for me right now I'd stand naked in the shower with you. I don't think I'd be so nervous this time, except for the small red spots on my stomach; it is winter and my skin is dry.

Or drive across the country listening to music. Or both in that order. I miss Wyoming and the way the mountains make my chest fill up.

Suddenly and inexplicably I am remembering that time when two people sank a blue paddleboat in a lake in Pennsylvania. They held onto a tree limb just above the water and we hauled ass in the emergency motorboat. Well once we got the lock to the storage shed open.

I promise you right now I'm going to write more this year, fucking almighty I am tired of using up all of my energy fulfilling other people's needs. I don't mean loving. That's a different thing entirely and I'm happy to do it.

Would you like any ham with your peanut butter sandwich?

This fucking album. I lost the mixed CD you made me. I haven't followed you back because I'm all unsorted on the inside. I'm glad you took the hint after I ignored 800 of your calls. I didn't know you loved me like that or I wouldn't have kissed you, just two friends who like each other enough to kiss by the hedgerow, I thought, evergreens prickling my back. Was I wearing a hunter green fall-weight jacket that day? Have I ever owned a jacket like that?

Thank you so much for going to that poetry open mic night with me. That was really swell and I had a giant crush on you. I wish I hadn't been drunk that one time we had sex. I'm much better at it now.

Meanwhile in Boston. I can't believe how childish you got once I said I wasn't in the mood, pouting the entire bus ride to the museum. What an asshole. I'm glad you showed me around the park but I should have ditched you by that Planned Parenthood downtown, or while I was tight-roping the concrete edge of the memorial fountain. Your trombone is weak and your wooden bowls pretty, though I wouldn't pay $700 for one of them.

I sat on the swing inside the fenced-in playground and though I was near community gardens on an elite college campus I felt like I was sitting in prison, and just as vulnerable, and it was my birthday and I told you that I liked you even though he wouldn't stop kissing me. I don't think of you very often and for that I am grateful in its own right. We loved. We are no longer in love.

Imagine yourself a turtle

Imagine yourself a turtle.

This morning I woke up dead. I got deader as the day went on.

I went to sleep and I was dead.

An error occurred. Welcome to the Gulag orchestra.

The horse's mane is blood.

Oh, inverted world. 

Look at you. You're so broken. 

*With thanks and condolences to the Shins, to Neutral Milk Hotel, and to the Silver Jews

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood. 

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you. 

     – Walt Whitman, from "Song of Myself"

Saturday, February 7, 2015

You're a pumpkin in the creek

Bad dirt. I syncopate syncopations.

You suffer. Tiny rabbits in rainbow colors. Everybody knows. 

Don't rescue me with sea salt. I cried and have been answered.

When the stars go, remember me:

Teacher. Writer. Farmer. More protein than an egg.

Thank You Sybil Ludington

"Sybil Ludington (April 5, 1761 – February 26, 1839) was a heroine of the American Revolutionary War who is famous for her night ride on April 26, 1777, to alert American colonial forces to the approach of the British. Her action was similar to that performed by Paul Revere,[1][2][3][4][5] though she rode more than twice the distance of Revere, rode alone, and was only 16 years old at the time of her action. She was an aunt of Harrison Ludington, the Governor of Wisconsin (1876–78)."

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Mother to Son, by Langston Hughes

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.