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July 02 2015

Reposted bydzonyMadKamson
1. You must let the pain visit.
2. You must allow it teach you.
3. You must not allow it overstay.

Ijeoma Umebinyuo, three routes to healing 
Do you imagine at night someone
going to bed the very moment
you are going to bed? Turning
out the light?
And isn’t it so quiet you swear
the heart is telepathic.
Isn’t it—

Beckian Fritz Goldberg, Eros in His Striped Shirt

Spend three years out in the world and getting torn up and tearing it up, because there is nothing in our craft that needs to be pursued with such talmudic concentration, but what does need to be pursued in our culture…is a passionate engagement with the world.

If I had to give you any advice, it’s that the you who spends most of her life living, and not writing, will be the you that writes the books I want to read

Junot Diaz
What advice would you give to an aspiring author?

The whole culture is telling you to hurry, while the art tells you to take your time. Always listen to the art.

Junot Díaz, from an interview by Noah Charney for The Daily Beast


Elsewhere, the moon is full.
A German Shepherd is curled up on his master’s feet.
The blankets are warm. The doors are locked.
Elsewhere, an infant cries.
His mother flicks on the lights. His father is elsewhere.
Elsewhere, two people are making love.
They are not in love.
Elsewhere, there’s a man in blue pajamas.
His slippers make no sound.
His finger pulls the trigger.
Elsewhere, there is chaos.

Johnny is getting old. I threw him his donut toy the other day and he snatched up my sister’s shoe instead. His colors are fading. He’s bumping into chairs and walls. He can’t jump on the couch anymore.

Sometimes it is the people around us that remind us we’re getting older. My sister graduated college on the 30th of May. My younger sister, cousin, and I missed the moment her name was called to get up and receive her diploma on stage and shake an old man’s hand (I imagine) because of iced coffee. My younger sister’s taller than me now. She has been for the past year.

The bathroom light’s gone dimmer.
Shadows look less like shadows.

I went to the airport weeks ago, to the section labeled “Departure” in bold letters. I couldn’t stop reapplying thin layers of lip salve on my lips every few minutes. It was dark. It was solemn. It was more like visiting a graveyard.

On the way back, the city’s secrets were revealed to me. We drove by silhouettes sleeping on the promenade. We drove by a woman in a blue tank top and red lips with her friend by a street light. They waved at us. I wonder how many more friends she has. We drove alongside massive trucks with blinding headlights. At one point, we stopped at a red light and through my window I saw a little girl. She was holding up a purple umbrella to the empty skies. And her umbrella had pointed ears and a kitten’s face. She turned her head to her right and I followed her gaze to a woman half hidden underneath cardboard and rags. And the woman was beckoning to her but the little girl stared straight ahead.

The lights turned green.

We all have our imperfections.

Here’s a shortlist of things I can’t do:
Write with my left hand
Ride a bike
Wait for a certain amount of time without having a nervous breakdown
Smile in photographs unless I’m really undoubtedly actually truly happy
Sleep before 1 AM
Go to parties alone
Wear short things
Recite poetry
Start a conversation
Say goodbye

Do you still not think I’m pathetic?

And this is why we dream:
The story tells us you’re dead

but in my dreams you’re smiling.

It doesn’t matter
what you think.

all that matters is
what they think.

Because the dead can smile too.

Press your fingers to your chest.

Somebody is always getting beat up by someone somewhere.

This hurts just as much sometimes.

MJL, What it Sounds Like in my Head Before the Sun Comes Up
If you love deeply, you’re going to get hurt badly. But it’s still worth it.

It is not fair to treat people as if they are finished beings. Everyone is always becoming and unbecoming.

Kathleen Winter

June 26 2015

I am always moving towards you.

On my bad days, I say to myself: “then you”.
Sure, this now. But then you.

I will keep tossing myself life lines.
I will keep writing myself afloat
until I don’t have to write a poem for every mile marker
from here to California.

You and I together is the most foolish thing
I’ve ever hoped for. You and I apart is more foolish.

When I can’t sleep at night, I dream up
conversations with you. I never call. I never push.
I try not to whine. I just write it all down.

Sometimes I want to apologize for wanting you out loud,
like too many people know the reasons
I am going to have laugh lines.

Sometimes instead of distanced pillow talk,
I want to curl up with the phone
and read you poetry.

Instead, we just talk about it.

You say, “honey, how was your day?”
And I say, “today I wrote another poem
about your coffee cup mouth
and all the ways you still keep me up at night.”

I hear a sigh in your smile.
You make a sound that reminds me of
fighting with my bags at the airport;
but you’re still too far away.

“Laugh Lines” Trista Mateer
This is for the almost poems: the abandoned tire swing, the squeaky desk chair you never
got around to fixing, the quiet almost deadly
way a person can make you fall apart and
put you back together all in the span of one
breath, the way he looked at you and then
the way he looked at her, mouths you can’t take your eyes off of and wanting every single thing
you know you will never have, like for example
knowing that there are poems inside me and
inside you that no one will ever know and may
never know. does that make you sad? it should.

Shelby Asquith, The almost poems

June 23 2015

There were days when it looked like love,
especially if you turned down the volume.
But even if you didn’t.

Bus rides asleep on each other’s
shoulders, sharing an ear-bud
plugged into a song
as if sharing a secret.

Afternoons where we stayed in
our pajamas and played video games
after he bought us twin bodega sandwiches
and remembered mine without the meat.

And while I look back
on the memories with equal, if not more
repulsion, I know that I wasn’t an idiot
to stay. That my heart invented
its own verb which meant To Love
The Dog Who Licks The Scar It Gave You.

On a dirty bar couch on Valentine’s Day
he said I would fight with you every morning
if it meant I could kiss you at night and at the time
it didn’t sound like the Codependent National Anthem
or a vending machine where you put in fury
and get out passion

or even like the things I read now
in pamphlets—the ones I thrust upon other women
like my own righteous gospel—

it sounded like the sweetest thing
he’d ever said to me. A poem
I could fold real small and carry
around in my locket, not noticing, for months
how it also kind of

Megan Falley, “The Balance”

You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to
pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy,


I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that
money is more fruitful than words, and
I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain.
I’ll walk you to the hospital,
I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to
locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and
I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks
and assure you that you’ll find your place,
it’s just
the world has a funny way of
hiding spots fertile enough for
bodies like yours to grow roots.


I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye,
or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I
wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday
and I would have wanted you to
give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time,
to see if you still had it in you.

I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
less devastating.

Small, Lucas Regazzi
Reposted byZoonk11lvcksdrink-meBartolomeo
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Reposted fromLittleJack LittleJack viahermina hermina
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