tea stains & girl brains: a sketch of the guy... →
The man waits until the clicking of the hole punch is just beside his ear before he starts digging through his pockets. His ear is the size of a toddler’s fist, a fist clutching a bouquet of small grey hairs. He knows that he will not find what he appears to be looking for because he hasn’t put it there. The conductor waits with his elbow on the back of the seat. He stares so hard at the...
documentary by kierra ray of all my favorite friends.
"INCEPTION" opens with Leonardo DiCaprio washed up...
… my mom leans over and says “OMG! JACK DAWSON IS STILL ALIVE!” it was the best part of the whole movie.
she wanted children for so long
she began watering plastic flowers.
online review on port 41, the intangible...
“If North Jersey is the armpit of America, then the area immediately outside Port 41 is the asshole of America. Great sign at the bar that reads “anyone in the bar must make a purchase” or something to that effect. The bartenders were telling us that due to the Port Authority’s proximity, numerous characters attempt to storm the bar like some Depression-era Bonus Army to...
He smelled like sleigh rides. Locked my cell phone in the glove box. Sprinted up the mountain like a stag dodging an arrow. I was slower, he was teaching me to trust my own ankles. At the summit we read his dead father’s poetry from a dusty binder. He had never shown anyone before. It was like someone returning your virginity as if it had just been out late wandering on the back of a milk...
"the session" - jeanann verlee. →
i heard this tonight & i am so glad i found it online. i am crying at my desk job. except i don’t have a desk. and i don’t really have a job either. that’s not the important part. the point is the poetry.
I want to make love to you while you’re wearing figure skates until the...– Derrick Brown - Cotton in the air (via stealwool)
i am never so aware of my new yorkness my taxi-hail tongue, my patience measured in a block, an express train as when you, californian, respond like a revolving door built on the back of a turtle who is swimming through peanut butter. all of a sudden minutes take the form of a toddler tugging on my pant leg; aware of the impending autumn talking ourselves into a chinese finger trap me;...
you might be a slam poet if.... →
… you still have a Myspace account because it’s where people can listen to your “tracks.”
lessons from a boy scout.
he taught me how to stare at road kill until it became art.
chris milea everybody
Chris: my dads like, dont activate that piece of crap, well get droids when i get paid
droids are the shit
im scared the phone will be smarter than me and ill become its phone
half blood prince(ss)
hermoine: she's only interested in you because she thinks you're "the chosen one."
harry: i am the chosen one!
i do not take down the “FOUND CHIHUAHUA” posters i stapled to every tree and telephone pole before she was really mine. when i pass them, i am reminded other people lose wonderful things on purpose and there’s still someone who spends the day waiting for me to come home.
I demand unconditional love and complete freedom. That is why I am terrible.– Tomaz Salamun (via clairlovesdean) (via therealkatiewest)
badpillgoodclub: Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not. Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end. Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of the bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm. There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay? Answer me that...
[happy] independence day.
we drove the car to the top of the parking ramp on the 4th of july we sat out on the hood with a couple of warm beers and watched the fireworks explode in the sky and there was an exodus of birds from the trees but they didnt know, we were only pretending and the people all looked up, and were pleased and the birds flew around like the whole world was ending and i don’t think war is noble...
when you said my love was an ice cream truck, you; breathless watching it turn the corner, me; the snow-cone you could only taste in memory—- your metaphor kept me as falsely sweet ice. a gasoline rainbow over cold gravel. i wished then you had said “strawberry short cake.” could see the outside of me; crumbles the inside pink as a newly picked scab.
i’m not a poet, i’m a telepath. i’ve got a telescope. i can...– -ainsley burrows. my fucking boy.
things i've learned since being single (for the...
1. go out by yourself. 1a. talk to everyone.