Gabriel Bruce. “Sleep Paralysis.”
Flying up, crossing over, going forward
Passing through, getting deep enough. Breaking
into, finding the way, leaving at the heart
and going beyond that. Finally realizing
that arriving is not the same as being resident.
That what we do is not what we are doing.
We go into the orchard for apples. But what
we carry back is the day among trees with odor,
coolness, dappled light and time.
—Jack Gilbert, opening lines to “Exceeding” from The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992 (Alfred A. Knopf, 1995)
(Source: apoetreflects)
My head is wet
My head is wet
Something
Something
I forget
I did not want to wash my hair
Something terrible
unbearable
or maybe not
Sometimes babies are born dead
It doesn’t matter
in the water
what I wanted or forgot
— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Drowned Girl
(Source: grammatolatry)
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you & you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. &
so I work
behind your
back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
good about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair
why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride."
— Peanut Butter, Eileen Myles
(Source: poemfull, via grammatolatry)
At some point — and more than a decade would certainly qualify — the act of continuously killing innocent people, countless children, in the Muslim world most certainly does reflect upon, and even alters, the moral character of a country, especially its leaders. You can’t just spend year after year piling up the corpses of children and credibly insist that it has no bearing on who you are. That’s particularly true when, as is the case in Afghanistan, the cause of the war is so vague as to be virtually unknowable. It’s woefully inadequate to reflexively dismiss every one of these incidents as the regrettable but meaningless by-product of our national prerogative.
But to maintain mainstream credibility, that is exactly how one must speak of our national actions even in these most egregious cases. To suggest any moral culpability, or to argue that continuously killing children in a country we’re occupying is morally indefensible, is a self-marginalizing act, whereby one reveals oneself to be a shrill and unSerious critic, probably even a pacifist. Serious commentators, by definition, recognize and accept that this is merely the inevitable outcome of America’s supreme imperial right, note (at most) some passing regret, and then move on.
— US attack kills 5 Afghan kids:
The way in which the U.S. media ignores such events speaks volumes about how we perceive them
(Source: socialuprooting)
ONE DAY BABY WE’LL BE OLD OH BABY WE’LL BE OLD THINK OF ALL THE STORIES THAT WE COULD’VE TOLD.Wankelmut.
— Jason Mraz
(via fuckyeahhappy)
“As rain falls equally on the just and the unjust, do not burden your heart with judgements but rain your kindness equally on all.”
― Siddhārtha Gautama
a golden sadness – such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry…"
— Jorge Luis Borges, from “The Art of Poetry”
(Source: litverve, via apoetreflects)
