nostalgia, you broken record
is this the remix my life has made
I could French press you with cinnamon
then drink you away
are you from a life past?
your face is a million clock towers hitting Noon
It came together for just a tick
then departed into my terminal views
inexplicable sadness, I think you are pretty
contentment would never exist without you
I know vapid gunshots in the inner city
Fountain Square wasn’t made for two
sour evenings spent in pixelated shade
are you the crime-scene my youth dies?
bodies of all the people and places I made
l’amas globulaire by °”/~”°
"When someone makes you the happiest person and the saddest person at the same time, that’s when it’s real. That’s when it’s worth something."
is that so (via farpegi)
"If they miss you, they’ll call. If they want you, they’ll say it. If they care, they’ll show it. And if not, they aren’t worth your time."
LONELINESS ON THE SIDELINES AS ENVY RACES LOVE
by Bob Schofield
six word poem 1/22/14
Prompt: “I always thought I was past this stage of my life. Guess not, Six. I’m still exactly where I started.”
dressed you, then
the air changed.
it became real
cannot be damned,
well used can
indeed make sense, and
can move to a
i wish it would
all happen at the same time,
and we would know it.
We were having some kind of after-hours work party. Everyone was dancing, but nobody was dressed up. It was all pretty casual. I found out there was going to be a dance contest later that night. It was kind of like in the movie Grease. Everyone needed a partner. I teamed up with a younger, male coworker. Somebody was walking around, offering appetizers. Cheese and crackers and smoked meats. He offered me some pepperoni, and I ate it.
"I am trying to parallel park my car
I am trying to make you love me"
'i will never be beautiful enough to make us beautiful together' - mira gonzalez (via mimiwao)
Apocalypse Now, a longform Google poem submitted by Jasmine Ferrari.
What Selfishness Absolutely Cannot Endure Is Duplication
Love is an impenetrable mansion of
past present and future
nurtured by an ovation of large blue men
and Calvin Klein smiling through
his body that could never be wounded.
Love is the silly taste that
hangs heaven with flash drapery,
hangs poetry on a tree at night.
All its images are in the dump.
To know love one must
read Kierkegaard at dawn,
attend Divine Liturgy,
become the spruces’ outstretched hand,
listen to Aoife O’Donovan
(since the imperfect is so hot in us),
fall upon Wallace Stevens by blind chance,
and, shaking the water off, like a poodle,
write half a poem while watching the Avengers.
The page is dark. My wife reads Eona
on the couch in a red dress, thigh showing.
Divinity must live within herself,
for I am a bit like the slenderest courtesan
and take naps in my metaphoric head
which destroys both worlds
of our silver-shapeless, gold-encrusted feelings.
seed text: the Collected Poems, by Wallace Stevens
art by meltesselate