Saturday, November 7, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
will you show me how to kick this engine over
in this endless glazing rain?
it won't start.
send me the address of Hitler's burial mound.
tell me where the good whore lives.
tell me why my elbows don't drop off,
why my head doesn't roll under the bed
don't tell me about Jesus or the devil
or about a new healthy diet.
I just want young girls to watch and wet their panties
while I kill flys with a rolled-up
newspaper.
please show me how to kick this engine over
and tell me that death is only a dream or
a bad joke.
tell me that my real desire is only for
life itself.
tell me how to get out and also stay in.
tell me how to move up and then down.
give me one more chance
one free bottle of good French wine and
a Band-Aid that will truly cover the wound.
help me kick this engine over!
give me a 15-year-old girl to
bring me a plate of tangerines
as the City if Angels goes up in flames.
let me know that my birth and your birth is more than
meaningless mathematics.
let me eat the girl
let me eat the tangerines
in that order.
it has simple rained too hard for
too
long.
please help me kick this god-damn
engine
over
one more time.
--Buk
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
this is nice
Crush
by Ada Limón
Maybe my limbs are made
mostly for decoration,
like the way I feel about
persimmons. You can’t
really eat them. Or you
wouldn’t want to. If you grab
the soft skin with your fist
it somehow feels funny,
like you’ve been here
before and uncomfortable,
too, like you’d rather
squish it between your teeth
impatiently, before spitting
the soft parts back up
to linger on the tongue like
burnt sugar or guilt.
For starters, it was all
an accident, you cut
the right branch
and a sort of light
woke up underneath,
and the inedible fruit
grew dark and needy.
Think crucial hanging.
Think crayon orange.
There is one low, leaning
heart-shaped globe left
and dearest, can you
tell, I am trying
to love you less.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
How to Make a Today (6/3)
Mix equal parts. Boil for approx. 10 mins before letting it reduce to a thick syrup.
Serve over ice.
Makes one serving.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
back like latissimus dorsi
Bitches!
ANIMALS
ANIMALS
by Frank O'hara
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days
[1950]
Monday, April 13, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Parallel: A Response
in the awesome strumming of no
guitars
I can never get too high
in places where giraffes run like
hate
I can never get too lonely
in bars where celluloid bartenders
serve poisoned laughter
I can never get too drunk
at the bottom of mountains
where suicides flow into the streams
I smile better than Mona Lisa
high lonely drunken grin of grief
I love you.
--Charles Bukowski
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Beware Our Nubile Miscreants
But I read his journal, it was very revealing..."
That just came on and I laughed and remembered how much I love Of Montreal.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Things I Stare At Series (pt. 1)
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
--William Faulkner accepting the Nobel Prize
December 10th, 1950
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Where did you come from, quote?
“I love you, I love you, but I don’t know how to love you, It is a mantra we learn one day and use regularly for the rest of our lives…”
-David Sedaris
Source: unfuckingknown
