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

Spare Change, 1

You always think it’ll change your life. There’ll be a snap, a rotary click-in-place. As if God were testing you, and the answer would be your key right into his Kingdom: a false start, a refusal to order an expensive ticket, the right words at social event. A nice haircut—something magnanimous and boyish. Something new as a hinge, to swing right open and jump in. 

Until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words, Wait and hope.

Alexandre Dumas, from The Count of Monte Cristo (via the-final-sentence)

(via the-final-sentence)

Automemoire: Earth, as a Meteorite

I was there. Because of my childhood habit,
I looked for a face
but there was none coming. And in that searching
I found other things instead:
sewing machines, pianos, 
growths the size of an ogre’s thumb,

I wanted very badly
to be found,
and then, to be made love to.
we would get married,
all of which would be a sacrifice for art.

This was the dream,
in that blunt space.
I thought of it the way that
Carson thought of talent 
as a quiver of arrows; mostly
I thought
in order to touch.

But in that dream
there came the less
and even lesser, 
of the real. There came
the hats 
and redrock billiards, 
birds with beaks
the size of faults. 
I woke up sweating
next to friends I’d slept with:
once, and then daily,
our feet tapping each other out.
I woke up all aflame,

from one to ten 
in an instant.
There were no lies. 

Will you be my friend / in my dreams?

Will you be my friend / in my dreams?

(via chadwys)


What remains of it all
is hard to tell. A mother’s handprint
in the bed, the various and unpronounceable
that clung smellingly
to life, even
at the end of it.
They were small.
I kept winter inside of them,

I have a limited number of arrows in my quiver, so I must take very careful aim and hit the target. Currie has an unlimited number of arrows and has never hit anything.

Anne Carson (On The Randomizer, from this interview)

The Kentucky Venus (Detail)mixed media on found sculpture, 2014Chad Wys (web/tumblr/fb/s6)


The Kentucky Venus (Detail)
mixed media on found sculpture, 2014

Chad Wys (web/tumblr/fb/s6)

(via cosascool)

A part of my physical appearance does not belong to me; it is a walking shadow of the conflict between East and West.

Taimour Fazlani (source)

A Triad of Verses For Friends

  1. T on the first, all the way from Michigan, rolling out of Sufjan’s land into mine. Just follow your intuition. I had an avocado shake—we passed a 60-minute café, then Einstein again—from a Vietnamese restaurant that made me think, briefly, of B. (Another man become a country—is this what I want of my life?) Nirvanic as mosquitos, we followed the drum past OCAD, the AGO, the University of Toronto, the Eaton Center, Stag Shop, The Rex, Grossman’s Tavern. 

    A falafel miracle / two studs of malachite / are you going to Goldsmith’s, old friend? / who are you, going? 

  2. A on the fifth, away right into his arms, swept up into the rhythm of a mirror presence, the first and last friend to be so quiet. Murakami wrote that mutual suffering was the key to harmony—maybe so. There we were, first walking, then that matcha latte and hours, hours, hours, out of which his twin eyes twisted and licked at me, playfully, like a physical dragon. You know exactly what you’re doing, and I love you for it. Crossing the street, the T, the I, the double F, the electric red carpet getting red all over our shoes, what were we to say? You want to come to my place? Sure, let’s go! Then up to the roof, the flat-face-slam of a sunset, the crane so Canadian, as in: not self-conscious, not even a little. Brisk. The alien legs of OCAD wobbling in my bad vision, my bare feet, we almost fell asleep up there. 

    Poetry anything but, didn’t you / decide to be something better? / My little shade, you are living my life / and we are still the same

    The room / the diligent room / we never leave it / we never, ever leave

  3. Then last night, jogging in the hoploid haptic dark, hello my brother, o brother where art thou going? I kept thinking it. Keep going? Wait—I’m taking a picture! I put a Queen Anne’s Lace above my ear. (You’ve got to stay in action, and keep a good heart. That’s what Ali said, at the reception.) The picture blue, the picture grey-vault, his lobbing body over mud. Ow. Ow. I think I rolled my ankle. Then: on the courts, our victory over our parents. 

    Keep track of your feet / be still as soon as possible