We are left in awe by the nobility of a tree, its...
12fv: George Nakashima
I have an affinity for depressed, British female writers like Sylvia Plath, Virgina Wolfe, and Katherine Mansfield.
Wodwo by Ted Hughes
What am I? Nosing here, turning leaves over Following a faint stain on the air to the river’s edge I enter water. Who am I to split The glassy grain of water looking upward I see the bed Of the river above me upside down very clear What am I doing here in mid-air? Why do I find this frog so interesting as I inspect its most secret interior and make it my own? Do these weeds know me and name me to...
Sex Without Love by Sharon Olds
How do they do it, the ones who make love without love? Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters over the ice, fingers hooked inside each other’s bodies, faces red as steak, wine, wet as the children at birth whose mothers are going to give them away. How do they come to the come to the come to the God come to the still waters, and not love the one who came...
wishing away time in the empty cage i lie to myself i don’t know why so here i lie trapped in my mind heavy air and heavy eyes i remember when i cried when i realized that physics would govern my life and now here i lie here i lie i cannot cry here i lie a zombie in light human at night when peacocks and lovers lift me aflight i am alive i am alive and then i realize it was a lie empty...
I had the weirdest hook up dream with Obama last night. It was by far the most vivid dream I’ve had thus far and the whole time I was like dude this is not real it’s a dream and I was creeped out and I kept trying to wake up but I literally could not. It was so fuckin weird I met his imaginary son too who was like holding onto a book that had Obamas home grown loose tobacco and smelled sooo bomb...
God damn it. She makes me mad but I love it.