'You finally fall asleep. And when you wake up, it's true. You are part of a brand-new world.'
- H.M.

And the mother swimming laps in the pool

I woke up in a terrible mood—well-rested, capable, and utterly stormy. Like a faraway song that cannot accomplish anything, and knows it. Something not even relevant to itself. Given another time, and place—given another time, and place—the violence might have drained into something else. But this time—this time—this time. Like a hammer, intent on its own tail. Like a child breaking blood, with a finger in its mouth. 

Jazz Riff 1

[The jazz riff is a kind of literary improvisation that is modeled after a musical bridge in a jazz standard. It is intended to be read once, then never again. Thank you for your understanding. ] 

los t my ttaste for itt / got a jaggedd riff colloidal / lostt my ttaste for itt / i’m ownerless and speckulus / good morning boardie / who’s yr daddy now? 

—and freedom, lax as a colonoscopy / puh-lease / the gun’s gunslinger / the moddie falcon / ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff 

sistr blacker hair beleecher / belly, belly, harbing binger / charlie with his feet deep in the water, water, water

.

hapulloosey, i’m a diligent bitch / for wshing clothes so diligently / ironing one pantlg at a time / until i die the short of it 

don’t go back / don’t go back / don’t go back / the flower’s left the anal 

don’t go back / don’t go back / i’m a roucked out a faulty ruckus, please

.

bream, in the beast halls / of my town
fear, in the wheat balls / of my gown
i’m walrussing up in this copulating rhye
I’m faulty as somebody’s delicate eye

.

bm, bm-chk
tn
bm, bm-ksch
tn 
vweeeee / da-va day, yay-dl doo-bm bree-yee / da-va day, bai-ya, ai-yee, yee-yah / in my town n n n n-uh, in my townnn

in my townnnnn-nuh,

in my town

surrealism:


Beats by Joan Miró, 1968. Color lithograph, 21 x 21 inches.


And I would like to call, call it beauty / Strained as love’s become, it still amazes me

surrealism:

Beats by Joan Miró, 1968. Color lithograph, 21 x 21 inches.

And I would like to call, call it beauty / Strained as love’s become, it still amazes me

First Letter After the Fact

And, worthy body,
what is left is yours:
not the blitz of almost-sleep,
the smell
a human will leave
just by touching,
but all the rest of it:
the imagination, 
circling like a headband 
of dull flowers. 
Within, the familiar body 
dances like a curtain,
pulling closed.
Within, the suitcase bursts 
open: the body, open 
as rain boots: ownerless, 
becoming proud…

andrewismusic:

monikatraikov:

wind.

i adore this

女儿美不美,女儿美不美。。。

andrewismusic:

monikatraikov:

wind.

i adore this

女儿美不美,女儿美不美。。。

I wrote the words that lately
I wouldn’t dare to speak.

The Art of Losing

And then, parked 
between realities. On my left: 
the cigarette he smoked, 
listening to the other half
of sure destruction, 
my attempts to plead with another man,
I’ve paid for the ticket, 
I’ll come alone if I have to,
etcetera. And so.

An older day.
He would have taken me 
to the cab, at least
that far. This time,
he took me to the front steps
as I left. 

And so. A close friend dreamt
of a cardinal, flying low 
into her home.
It was nearly midnight,

lonely midnight.
So her mother
cut off its wings. 

     I want to say,
I don’t 
want anyone to wait for me.
I’ll grow that wild,

eventually. 
With patience, 

I will be a violent hunter.

SH 1

I feel better. Time has slowed, has stopped. Drainage and memorabilia have become indistinguishable. Did Miles break up with her? But she was so small, and had such short hair. I wanted her in my own minuscule way.

On the way out, Dennis tapped me on the shoulder. See yuh. Earlier I tickled his shoulder, stepping behind him, my back to the bathroom. Two taps: one for each thing. It won’t make sense if I think more about it. I mean, it will, but I’ll be wrong.

Don’t think about anger, living in another place, you are pale and full of conceptions. Stuffed with fragrant mushrooms, and angry. How elaborate you’ve made me! Becoming suspicious, the puppet with its poor broken neck turned towards the ceiling fan. Send a video message. See how the A/C makes your hair tremble.

Waiting for the right time / Waiting for the right time / Waiting for the right time

Above the buildings, history. Above history, what? She spelled it über without blinking an eye. Or keeping one eye closed, how do you know happiness? Well, it must be because we’ve made a commitment. One to power, one to flaming, one to the odd woman down the street. This morning she gave you an extra bunch of flowers, but because there were too many you didn’t wear any of them. Then you told him you were ready for a break. 

urgetocreate:

Sir George Clausen, In the Small Hours, 1911

urgetocreate:

Sir George Clausen, In the Small Hours, 1911

(via chadwys)

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