ONCE THERE WAS BEAUTY HERE BUT I GAVE IT ALL AWAY

anneboyer:

Always falling into a hole, then saying “ok, this is not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of the hole which is not the grave, falling into a hole again, saying “ok, this is also not your grave, get out of this hole,” getting out of that hole, falling into another one; sometimes falling into a hole within a hole, or many holes within holes, getting out of them one after the other, then falling again, saying “this is not your grave, get out of the hole”; sometimes being pushed, saying “you can not push me into this hole, it is not my grave,” and getting out defiantly, then falling into a hole again without any pushing; sometimes falling into a set of holes whose structures are predictable, ideological, and long dug, often falling into this set of structural and impersonal holes; sometimes falling into holes with other people, with other people, saying “this is not our mass grave, get out of this hole,” all together getting out of the hole together, hands and legs and arms and human ladders of each other to get out of the hole that is not the mass grave but that will only be gotten out of together; sometimes the willful-falling into a hole which is not the grave because it is easier than not falling into a hole really, but then once in it, realizing it is not the grave, getting out of the hole eventually;  sometimes falling into a hole and languishing there for days, weeks, months, years, because while not the grave very difficult, still, to climb out of and you know after this hole there’s just another and another; sometimes surveying the landscape of holes and wishing for a high quality final hole; sometimes thinking of who has fallen into holes which are not graves but might be better if they were; sometimes too ardently contemplating  the final hole while trying to avoid the provisional ones; sometimes dutifully falling and getting out, with perfect fortitude, saying “look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn’t!” 

(via hunkpurveyor)

By torrin a. greathouse

after John Murillo

After learning that there are over one hundred thirty-two
distinct phobias & still no word for the fear of fish hooks,

I think of my father, his broad hand, unfurled over
my tiny fist, the knife he teaches me to clutch, its rough

handle of recycled bone suddenly gone
slick against my not yet calloused palm.

The way the ice-box thumps like an unsteady
heart—like I imagine my grandfather’s did, that year

in the restaurant, breath snagged sharp in the back of his throat,
face blooded as dawn over his crucifix’s pale gold, & we waited

in shock for him to gasp back to his body’s surface.
Let me start again, my father dragged the panicked pulse,

a bluegill, out from the ice. Its mouth, like my grandfather’s,
a wordless babble. Both their eyes, flat & dull as a copper ashtray.

There is a word for the fear of water, but not of drowning. Another
for the fear of darkness, but not how it hides a person’s face.

Sometimes, I forget the difference between an eclipse & silhouette
—sorry, I’m losing the thread—I mean, my father made me hold

the knife. Showed me on the fish where to find an entrance
& make it open. Blade dragged from anus to throat. Its guts

a door kicked in. Its blood escaping like still-hot wind from a kitchen
in the winter where my father told me how, in high school, he wrote

a guide for field dressing humans, just for fun. Now, I imagine
every animal he pries open, guts steaming like spring dirt, could be

a child; the scar where I once opened, thin strip of sunset,
that still aches when a lover hooks their fingers to drag

an orgasm’s unsteady pulse from inside me, to leave me
gasping, eyes fish-wide & panicked. I mean, some days,

I still can’t look straight into the mirror surface of glass
or a fish’s eye & there is a name for both these fears.

Like, the fear of dead fish, Ichthyophobia, from the Greek
ichthys, meaning fish, but also the name which Christians used

to hide their faith when it was a hunted thing. Perhaps this makes my fear
a kind of prayer, how some mornings, I wake unable to move, a body

above me, eclipsing the light. Always with a man’s face.
& always a gold cross, glitter & flail, strung from his neck,

like a fish with punctured gills, open mouth futile
against the gilded line. Let me start again, once,

my father caught a fish hook through his palm, dipped his hand
into the river & his blood—his blood was touching everything.

via Palette Poetry

railroadsoftware:

classicmeevs:

s-video:

i wonder if theres a grammatical rule out there that explains why “i’m a big sexy bug” sounds better than “i’m a sexy big bug”, yet “im a sexy little bug” sounds better than “i’m a little sexy bug”

What? Sexy bugs?

gotta side with meevs on this one

(via meltedbartsimpson)

We treat desire as a problem to be solved, address what desire is for and focus on that something and how to acquire it rather than on the nature and the sensation of desire, though often it is the distance between us and the object of desire that fills the space in between with the blue of longing.

A Field Guide to Getting Lost, Rebecca Solnit

dietcokeinacanonly:

He’s being so careful I’m crying

(Source: babyanimalgifs, via chacaltaya)

defy transcendence for hunger. fight the bad fight.