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

It is only through the re-establishment of a concrete relation between the language of things and the language of man that we can hope to find any sort of real revolutionary experience in the world, or any totality of existence.

Kate Khatib (via uutpoetry)

Breathless (1960)

(via blue-voids)

V. H-W. Eliot, Monologue

when we meet again all
of Heaven will stall 
on his fingertip. I shall
wear my black cape and Polly
he’ll say how disastrous 
to see you again like this
it isn’t right 
but we’ll 
know won’t we? the show’ll
go on and on and he’ll
go back to his corner,
direct, and g’bye. 

i am a product of my reading too
i am a product of my reading,

wherein capitulations
and trials keep not the twin souls
from re-meeting. as in
dave mitchell’s Cloud Atlas,
wherein bumping in and into each other
we find the best of the desert state
and a new language to boot,
off-shoots of an empire. 

how grand, to take his hand!
underneath that rippèd sky, our plans
like crushed shells in the soil
to reinvigorate that vertigree, 
inventors fast and final,
of a kind of time. o tom,

you’ll be the better death 
of me! you’ll be the winter
and the spring! this time,
we’ll feel like everything! 

On the Birth (of Time and The Novel)

Though she couldn’t say what it was she wanted, she wanted it. The neon tongue of a very young girl, who would soon start speaking in the dark. Simultaneity. 

The way a novel begins where before, there was no novel. The way a voice resolves itself into something familiar, where before, no voice was audible,
or even able to be imagined—this was what she wanted. The intimation

of a string, like a follicle, like many follicles, gaining unmistakeably
upon the future.

Look, she wanted to say.
Look at my body,
which I have come to own again!

Like a rough container,
like a speaking habit,
like the habit of speaking clearly.

"I didn’t come for you, but now that you’re here, I’ll guess we’ll have to."
"We’ll have to talk."
"And after talking?"
"Well, we’ll have to make love, won’t we?"
"I suppose we will."
"We will, won’t we?"
"Well, I suppose so."

And certain things would have to be purchased—this much she knew—and other things would have to be sold, or else given away, or else forgotten, in the most brusque, artificial, pre-calculated, slimy manner—that is to say with the utmost guile—and what would be left would be like that mollusc that Calvino described, the one which invented time—

(Dinner time!

—and gaining and spiraling,
I’ll come first, 
before all the rest of you,
like a saint. 
Like a magnetic shaving,

slung through the mantle of the earth
like a bird,
or a compass needle. 

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,