May 2009
quartertosleep:
Your naked shadow, stirring a little as I creep to the toilet late at night, is how I define bliss.
Now I'm Awake
dearoldlove:
I wrote poetry for you, you played the piano for me. We made love. But I never once woke up next to you. That hurts.
Swallows, Talvikki Ansel
poetry365:
Summer’s over, and we never even
drank at the Ocean House, that yellow
elegance they’ll tear down this year.
Wind sweeps the locust leaves sideways,
I read the journals
of Dorothy Wordsworth: the lucid days,
walks, wet skirts twisted around ankles,
scrambles up rocks and through damp fields.
Swallows nest above her cottage window.
She bakes bread, cuts and turns...
Alzheimer's, Sean Nevin
poetry365:
A blizzard, late in the season, arrives
with its sudden cannonading …
It sends a lost soldier wandering, alone
towards the center of what he perceives
as a vast clearing in a dense pine grove.
Snowdrifts will billow up past his thighs
and the chalk-blue terrain will forget
its own landmarks by nightfall. He will drop
his rifle and his rucksack on the snow,
hallucinate his...
shit.
1. One of my friends who is actually my ages seems to be turning into an alcoholic. (how do I approach this? No one here is going to bring it up to her.)
2. I’m only 1/2 packed. (I only have to pack my chargers/toothbrush)
3. Money.
papergirl : live - “i am so young” →
I re-watched this just now. That, combined with so many of the posts I’ve seen on my dashboard recently and so many of the conversations I’ve had with people who were or are important makes me want to ask:
Do you remember at all what it was like to be my age?
“We watch movies together, you can’t ever really read a novel with another...”
– Some lovely thoughts from Joanne McNeil. (via katiebakes) (via peterwknox) (via dilaudid) I always get a little embarrassed reading in public, especially in restaurants or on the subway, where most other people aren’t reading (at least not similar things) because of how strongly I react to the...
“They wish they could wake in the morning like you
and stand at a window...”
– Poetry 365: Afterlife, Billy Collins
fluffed:
copycats:
Boys Don’t Cry by Scarlett...
quartertosleep:
My roomba creates pretty swirls as it bumps like a drunkard across the room. I chase him with a real vacuum. I’ll name him Branwell Bronte.
why is the word "underrated" being thrown around...
also, how great is it that I’m not a twenty-something! hah!
1 tag
here is something
Actually, my taste in men is probably what will send me rocketing into therapy. But it’s fun for now.
when I finally go to the bank
I’ll have enough money to either buy a 4x5 press camera (which will produce negatives like this, which I think are awesome) or a bike (which will be nice to have since I’m spending the summer in NYC).
Which would be a better immediate investment?
Weighing the Dog, Billy Collins
poetry365:
It is awkward for me and bewildering for him
as I hold him in my arms in the small bathroom,
balancing our weight on the shaky blue scale,
but this is the way to weigh a dog and easier
than training him to sit obediently on one spot
with his tongue out, waiting for the cookie.
With pencil and paper I subtract my weight
from our total to find out the remainder that is his,...
1 tag
here is something
“You’re going to be busy this summer” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
b's bikes.
meaghano:
I decide to walk to the deli and buy a Diet Dr. Pepper because they are free at work and I suddenly find myself dabbling in the stuff again. When I was a nanny I used to drink two of those $1.25 Diet Cokes a day and Bobby used to yell OHMYGOD YOU’RE ADDICTED.
Addiction was a word we threw around a lot in that house, pretty casually. It was how we talked about the little things we used...
The Possibilities for Wings, Gary Fincke
poetry365:
How often have the customs of strangers
Silenced me into dreaming their beliefs.
In Java, for example, some people
Insist the souls of suicides return
In the bodies of crows, while in Scotland,
Souls of the lonely flee to butterflies.
In Pennsylvania? In this town where death
Belongs to those with names I’ve said, the souls
Of the ordinary are cries called out
And gone into...
A: and I wish you good dreams and sleep
(when you go for them)
S: Thank you.
They just had sex to one of my favorite songs--I cried.
Oh god, I also cried the last time I HAD sex
I never thought I'd be one of those girls
that cried because she wasn't sleeping with the person she was in love with
but damnit, it was like a fucking movie
in the bad way
and then the good way, cause he was incredibly sweet to me and just let me cry
but still
A: yeah
S: I don't think I'd ever wish that on anyone
A: I'm sorry
S: It's all right.
I mean, I could have not gone home with him. Or not let myself develop feelings with the other one
A: I can't really say anything right here
S: I know
here is something
Don’t worry. Even I’m confused by my taste in men.
Memory of Soil, Eleanor Paynter
poetry365:
The new tenants change a few things.
They whitewash the red kitchen,
lay a rug on the wood floor, hang
long curtains and photographs of other people
from other pasts. Their centerpiece is
plucked from the July meadow, sunflowers
leaning on the sides of the vase.
The house creaks with seasons.
They coat the scent of roasted pecans
in new recipes, new coffee
from a new...