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Ashe Vernon

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Where it Begins, Erica Jong 

[ID: The corruption begins with the mouth, / the tongue, the wanting. / The first poem in the world / is I want to eat.]

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“How is it that I am writing to you? I do not know; but I am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of my existence.”

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot (via catherineaddington)

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Poem, Langston Hughes

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Happiness” by Raymond Carver

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Last Body, Mai Der Vang

I can’t leave my hurting skull Or the rose apple opening inside me.

I’ll count the weeks, months, Unfurling each numbered day in my hair.

Frost ribbons inside my brain, Canals push up my leg.

I’m moving on To what the world needs me to know.

I am the angel trapped inside the bullet. I am the exit wound trapped inside the angel.

Am I the scarecrow Perched at the end of the human trail.

I’ll palm cotton between my prayers Until the universe has passed,

Waving down jellyfish To volcano hours.

What force propels a bullet From its chamber. Is it sourced by water

Trickling in a karst cave, Or is it an angel’s gasp as she flees.

I can’t answer it all, But my mask grows taller every year.

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Maybe If I Rip a Few Things Apart with My Teeth, I'll Feel Better, Schuyler Peck

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e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, 

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers, 

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and 

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals 

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

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the outcast angel reports back to the defunct android by silas denver melvin

click for better quality

[Text ID: angel tells android about the words they've learned this week. every beautiful human thing their god-mouth has tamed into holding: cerulean. crustacean. testicle. boombox. transsexual. override. android rewinds, smiles with their titanium jaw. they've got bad joints, can't go out in the world like they once did; both unable & deemed a machine too ugly. doesn't fool humans like it used to. angel plays reporter. ties their wings back. in the privacy of their shared room, angel grows eyes & android gets soft. that feedback loop that got them canned. android says we're not so different, are we, doll? god got bored & birthed you. man got cocky & built me. i was outcast from earth & you from heaven. oh, we must be bad. ain't that a thrill? angel smiles with all their eyes & mimics another human action: cups android's face & kisses their synthetic mouth. ain't that a thrill? they repeat. ain't that a thrill? /End ID]

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The intangible thing that happens with friends!!

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The Strawberry Poem by Keaton St. James

(patreon)

[ID: poem titled ‘The Strawberry Poem’ reading,

“i tell myself that once i make it to tomorrow, i will get up with the gold glow of the sun, tighten my scarf against the restless cold, & walk to the nearest grocery store. i will buy the biggest box of strawberries i can find, sit on my kitchen floor, eat them with my hands all in one shot.                                                      like a child or like god, i will stain some things red on accident. & still the foam-mouthed seas will churn under the gaze of the moon, & cardinals with snow- brushed wings will nestle themselves into pine branches the way a heart nestles itself into the ribs, & still i will have my laughter, yes, even when pain fills up my pockets like stones.                                                      but isn’t that the miracle? i was close enough to the river to kiss it, & i went home anyway. home, where it is so easy to spill sugar on the counter, drop tea leaves on the floor, forget splinters of cinnamon sticks & find them later behind the kettle, your mess the proof that you were not a ghost here but a body, solid & awake & true. home, where it is                                                     so easy to make a big joy from a small strawberry, to hold that sweet- ness in your mouth, its red as bright as wanting. its red that says, & how much more joy can we hold in another year, another decade, a whole recklessly beautiful life?”

/end ID]

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“You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever. And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives. And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.”

— Aaron Freeman “You Want A Physicist To Speak at your Funeral” (via focloir)

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Hieu Minh Nguyen, Outbound

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Snow, Anne Sexton

Snow, blessed snow, comes out of the sky like bleached flies. The ground is no longer naked. The ground has on its clothes. Trees poke out of the sheets and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope. There is hope everywhere. I bite it. Someone once said: Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone. What I bite is all bread, rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope. There is hope everywhere. Today God gives milk and I have the pail.

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October, Bobbi Katz

October is when night guzzles up the orange sherbet sunset and sends the day to bed before supper and October is when jack-o’-lanterns grin in the darkness and strange company crunches across the rumple of dry leaves to ring a doorbell. October is when you can be ghost, a witch, a creature from outer space… almost anything! And the neighbors, fearing tricks, give you treats.

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wow.. 😔💔

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Wallace Polsom, Some General Questions (2017), paper collage, 10.6 x 23.9 cm.