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[08 Jun 2009|04:06pm] |
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Today at work I had to whiteout names of former employees on their business cards, then write in the names of new employees.
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| How I Became A Supervillan |
[27 Mar 2009|11:19am] |
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I'm sorry we can't be together. You see, I'm actually Batman. An enemy of Batman will be an enemy of yours, and...well, I just love you too damn much to do that to you. To us. You deserve better. Better than me. Better than Batman.
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| also |
[19 Feb 2009|05:36pm] |
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Kanye West "Heartless" and T-Pain "Buy You a Drank" are kinda the same song.
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| "just to be next to your bones" |
[19 Feb 2009|05:29pm] |
*I wish I could find the original poem in Spanish.
EVERYTHING IS FULL OF YOU
Everything is full of you
and I am full of everything:
the cities are full,
and the cemeteries are full,
you, with all the houses,
me, with all the bodies.
Down the streets, I will leave
something that I will retake:
pieces of my life
come from far away.
I go, feathered by agony
against my will, to see myself
in the threshold, in the bottom
hidden since birth.
Everything is full of me:
of something that is yours and memory
lost, but found
once more, some day.
Days that linger behind
decidedly black,
indelibly red,
golden upon your body.
Cast from your hair,
everything is full of you:
of something that I haven't found
and look for among your bones.
-Miguel Hernandez
THE ARCHIPELAGO OF KISSES
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey.
It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
-Jeffrey McDaniel
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[17 Feb 2009|06:08pm] |
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| 22 |
[14 Feb 2009|08:35pm] |
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My hair caught fire in my birthday candles.
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[04 Feb 2009|01:28pm] |
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Shuffling/Off/the Radiant/Object of Desire
How lovely it will be the day I get to do you
some/all the way/to the hilt/how awful the day
you fully blush/crush/shrink/shirk/from my hard
on in the closet under the staircase surrounded
by old coats/vacuums/in the attic’s stale air
dissected by planes of mote-mottled light/
by circular bullet hole light/split you/open
like the time I pressed you in the closet/like
the time you cried/no/just cried/turned from
me/turned over in my hand/bloomed like blood
in a bullet hole/filled with water like my lungs/
like your lungs/like our lungs/more like our
lungs/than my blushing/hard on/groaned/worried
aloud Am I boring you with this shit?/and knew
the answer/knew no such thing/whispered I’ll break
you accidentally like a cheap wine glass/the man
you marry will be taller than me/certainly you
won’t shrink from his bullet holes/won’t not
rub suntan lotion on his hard on/certainly he
will move you just right in the closet/like
a seizure will/he burn you?/bum you out?/how
terrible it will be the day you marry/the blood
in the army men's bullet holes will run through
their eyes/my eyes/bloodshot/and not one/as
half/as good/as me/to you/as half as luminous
as you/opening up/and blinding/blinded by/
the luminous luminous you.
-Jennifer Knox
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[19 Jan 2009|08:54pm] |
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[19 Jan 2009|08:49pm] |
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[08 Dec 2008|12:32am] |
EUPHORIA
Late winter, sky darkening after school,
& groceries bought from Shop-Mart,
My mother leaves me parked on Diamond
To guard her Benz, her keys half-turned
So I can listen to the Quiet Storm
While she smoke a few white pebbles
At the house crumbling across the street.
I clamber to the steering wheel,
Undo my school tie, just as Luther Candross
Starts in on that one word tune, “Creepin’.”
The dashboard’s panel of neon glows,
And a girl my age, maybe sixteen or so,
In a black miniskirt, her hair crimped
With glitter, squats down to pane glass
And asks, A date, baby? For five?
Outside, street light washes the avenue
A cheap orange: garbage swirling
A vacant lot; a crew of boys slap-boxing
On the corner, throwing back large swills
Of malt; even the sidewalk teeming with addicts,
Their eyes spread thin as egg whites.
She crams the crushed bill down
Her stockings, cradles & slides her palm
In rhythm to my hips’ trashing
In rhythm to Luther’s voice, which flutters
Around the word I now mistake for “Weep”
As sirens blast the neighborhood &
My own incomprehensible joy to silence.
Out of the house my mother steps,
Returned from the ride of her life,
Studies pavement crack for half-empty vials,
Then looks back at the bricked-over windows
As though what else mattered--
A family, a dinner, a car, nothing
But this happiness is so hard to come by.
Major Jackson
*finals are kicking my ass. more to come.
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[21 Nov 2008|04:49pm] |
"love is frightening and most things run
from it's shadow. it must be like your favorite tv star
turning on the screen and saying You, I See You.
extending a real arm from the glass.
you think you;d love it but it's terrifying.
when i finally did meet big bird i ran screaming.
i was five years old in a department store
and the nightmares kept me twitching all night."
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[10 Nov 2008|10:43pm] |
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How could I have known true love would come, briefly, on one leg, after 56 Jell-O shots in an upstate fraternity basement listening to Ted Nugent's "Wango Tango," so drunk I'd just fucked a pile of phonebooks?
-Jennifer L. Knox
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[31 Oct 2008|05:55pm] |
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I find it disheartening that the only one who got my costume was the girl who later fucked the bouncer in the bathroom. Huh.
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[14 Oct 2008|10:45am] |
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| Sad Steps |
[07 Oct 2008|12:44am] |
SAD STEPS
Groping back to bed after a piss
I part thick curtains, and am startled by
The rapid clouds, the moon’s cleanliness.
Four o’clock: wedge-shadowed gardens lie
Under a cavernous, a wind-picked sky.
There’s something laughable about this,
The way the moon dashes through the clouds that blow
Loosely as cannon-smoke to stand apart
(Stone-colored light sharpening the roofs below)
High and preposterous and separate--
Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!
O wolves of memory! Immensements! No,
One shivers slightly, looking up there.
The hardness and the brightness and the plain
Far-reaching singleness of that wide stare
Is a reminder of the strength and pain
Of being young; it can’t come again,
But is for others undiminished somewhere.
Phillip Larkin
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[08 Aug 2008|04:30pm] |
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"Capitol G" by Nine Inch Nails and "The Way You Make Me Feel" by Michael Jackson are the same song.
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| LISZITIANA, MUCH LATER |
[15 Jul 2008|11:00am] |
I sit in your T- shirt
with its spots of paint
as a certain fierceness pours
outside, perhaps, too, on you,
I'm smoking a Camel now
and I have a big hole in my
shoulder from washing away
a lot of dirt. Are you there?
there, are you? I am here.
and the storm is not enough,
it should crash in wet,
there should be maelstrom where
a privileged host is smiling.
And naked in the debris I there
should be, but being here, should
bend to you, pick out of rubble
a scrap of painted shirt
as if it were spoiled ivory from
a grand piano, possessed of us
both, and ruined now by storms.
-Frank O'Hara
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| comment |
[29 May 2008|10:10pm] |
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song that makes laugh and cry
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[12 May 2008|11:58pm] |
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oh, timing.
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[12 May 2008|12:48am] |
you are a douchebag but at least i figured it out before this time
!
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