December 2011
79 posts
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New York, I Love You
Daughter: Why's that squirrel chasing the other squirrel?
Father: Because he loves her.
Daughter: Then why is she running away?
Father: Because she's scared.
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Emails with Steve Timm
Me: Are there washers/dryers at Ghost Ranch? Just trying to figure out what to pack.
Me: Nevermind. I figured that one out.
Steve: Thank god. I sat up all night worrying about whether or not you could pack a washer and dryer on the plane.
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inspire me 8track playlist →
I have fast internet again. Finally. Ries Murphy says this is a good playlist. And if Ries Murphy says this is a good playlist, it’s a good fucking playlist.
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A Letter to My Sister
Merry Christmas Eve. I didn’t know people said such things, but I’ve been getting a lot of text messages and emails and hearing people at the stores telling me that, so I guess I’m saying Merry Christmas Eve to you now. I know you are probably fighting with Dad because you don’t want to go to sleep yet, and he’s probably telling you Santa won’t come if you...
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Stars
What do you know
of them? The long trains
of their living
past their deaths,
the way they find
your eyes in the middle
of the night you
can’t sleep.
You gaze and wonder
at what layers of worlds
whirl between
them. What blue
verbs and laughter
do they sing?
Yet, with a yawn,
you close
your eyes
to the sagas
of their making,
all the music
of their light.
-Joseph Heithaus
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“Tristan, we’ve both known this can’t be. We’ve known this from the start. That...”
– Tristan and Isolde
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“The joy of being a lady? Wanting something I can’t have. A life of my own.”
– Tristan and Isolde
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“Why be capable of feelings if we weren’t meant to have them? Why long for...”
– Tristan and Isolde
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Minifiction #5 (double length)
“I used to be a soprano like you. Henry, he sang tenor. We did duets. Have you seen him?” I stood to ask the nurse, but this woman, (Emily?) she grabbed my wrist with her raisin hands. “Please don’t leave. Someone brought me here. He said he’d come back, but he didn’t. Take me with you. Please, Amelia. I’ve been waiting for someone to come back, but he hasn’t. Every day he doesn’t come back.”...
A Christmas Party
Em: Everyone in France wears the stereotypical stuff, striped shirts, berets, smokes cigarettes.
Sean/Paul: Jesus, the hipsters invaded France!
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flightlessbirdamericanmouth- asked: Your poem Brain Injury is brilliant. The allusions to Prufrock and Hamet are beautiful
Minifiction #4
This story starts in an apple orchard with two boys, one a bit shorter than the other. And a dead nightingale. They found a nest cupped like straw hands, an egg in its palm. Taller asks the other how big the yolk would be. Shorter grabs it, drops it. He didn’t expect premature death inside.
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Minifiction #3
Come here. I’ll whisper things that make your skin itch and give the walls goose bumps. I’ll tell you stories and secrets and invent worlds that don’t know they’re nonexistent. I’ll break hinges and elbows with my words and cement will buckle when I speak. When I tell you that all these things are true.
How About Orange →
A fun little blog full of DIY ideas, free downloads, and other goodies!
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My Owl Barn →
Owl lovers blog.
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No, I’m not having a sad day, but I listen...
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lieslieslies:
How the fuck do you get over the people you love?
Anonymous
Don’t.
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NPR Music's 100 Favorite Songs of 2011 →
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i carry your heart with me
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it (anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling) i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is...
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There you are.
The following poems are from my poetry portfolio for the semester. They are still a bit rough. If there was a theme I would say it was love and death, but that’s kind of the theme of life, right?
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Online Discovery
Few girls will admit partaking
in such hobbies. They secretly
enjoy watching these videos.
Since September, I’ve lived alone
with my books and plays. I don’t mind
Flip camera documentaries
of desire on a couch, bed, floor,
dinner table, kitchen island,
public restroom. I didn’t know
I would find you, an amateur,
recently added, buried deep
in teenage trios, handlocked throats,
swollen lips, chins...
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The difference of a letter
We speak a language of architecture—
Le Corbusier, Berlin, the islands
off Dubai—and modern literature—
Nadja, Vonnegut, Rilke, Peter Pan,
Catcher in the Rye, (it was your favorite
in high school.) You tell me about Turkey
and the women there—everything how it
defines that place—hookah, fabric, the sea.
You speak to me in French, German, Turkish
bending syllables, forcing foreign words
to mean...
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The Haunting Hour
to Ries Murphy
(a boy who used to live in Little Rock Apt. 9)
I bought a quesadilla last night.
I can remember the sign behind
your head, but nothing you said except,
“I’ve watched you. This campus is dragging
you down.” You always asked for extra
salsa and sour cream and tossed it
in the trash unopened. That always
bothered me, but I never told you.
I can remember the night you saw
a waning...
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Robot Love Song
Your frosted breath births steel
like cheap Midas. Feed me screws
and kiss me with hammers
until we melt into rusted shadows.
Cheap Midas, feed me screws
coated in velvet barbed wire
until we melt into rusted shadows.
We weren’t always machines
coated in velvet barbed wire.
Kiss me with hammers.
We weren’t always machines—
your frosted breath birthed steel.
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Brain Injury
My grandfather looked at murky
x-rays and fogged MRI’s and tried not to say
what he knew because he didn’t want to.
Well, we can fix it—a mistake my parents
didn’t correct four years ago. We can fix it.
My mother’s eyes had filled with Out damned spot!
but Tide and white veils and baking soda
and the white haired little boy and bleach
and green roofed houses and nail polish remover
and...
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Fuchsias
My first grade fingers slowly
closed in, pressing the bulbous
fetus, waiting impatient
for the “pop.” It was a slow
procedure, gentle, not hip-
hop, but ballet, careful like
a game of operation.
I peeled the five petals back,
forcing a premature bloom,
the bruised delicate flesh blades
bleeding into crevices
of half gnawed off fingernails.
Grandma saw my harvest for
beauty but she said...
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Your Last Memorial Day
I thought you would die today.
A butcher stripped warm steer flesh
outside our kitchen window,
hooves suspended off the grass.
A butcher stripped warm steer flesh,
your chest neither rose nor fell,
feet suspended off the ground.
Death crossed her arms on the couch—
your chest neither rose nor fell.
You didn’t eat your peaches.
Death crossed her arms on the couch
and the radio sang scratchy...
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“Real happiness lies in that which never comes nor goes, but simply is.”
– Yogi tea
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“The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day...”
– Mark Twain 