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“[...]yo escribo porque el druido, / bajo el rumor de sílabas del himno, / encina bien plantada en una página, / me dió el gajo de muérdago, el conjuro / que hace brotar palabras de la peña. / Los nombres acumulan sus imágenes. / Las imágenes acumulan sus gaseosas, / conjeturales confederaciones. / Nubes y nubes, fantasmal galope / de las nubes sobre las crestas / de mi memoria.” -Octavio Paz

July 21, 2014 pt. 2

Here’s the second one

Bricolage and basket weaving

this park is glut with birds,
sick with so many

glass and stone and
paint and blood creatures

A fountain that doesn’t move
Hands hold all the flagpoles

so that they remember
which way is skyward

Most of the birds
have already forgotten

They’ve laced their claws
and bones into baskets

for their beaks
and orange blossoms, now

3 days ago
1 note
July 15, 2014

 turn on 

everything is turned off/ 
turn everything off/ 

everything gets turned off/ 
let’s start this 

from it’s beginning/ 
but carefully,

you only get so many beginnings 
/ two men, from a dream/ 

standing in the cumulus/ 

in the heavens/ 
from the rain/ 


Art: “the art of conversation” Rene Magritte

July 15, 2014

turn on

everything is turned off/
turn everything off/

everything gets turned off/
let’s start this

from it’s beginning/
but carefully,

you only get so many beginnings
/ two men, from a dream/

standing in the cumulus/

in the heavens/
from the rain/


Art: “the art of conversation” Rene Magritte
1 week ago
131 notes

July 3, 2014

Think I hope I have a real living space, now

Hollow bird cages

I keep hearing the
same tune Crackling

paper stars litter
the subway Broken

violin strings, snapping
birds talons Empty sounds

of a crowd breaking on
glass stalls and miners

Falling stones of fair tickets,
cotton balls, sin-laden

stints in a drunken booth
The same song, sung out

like tiles crackling, pigeons
trapped in steel gutters

3 weeks ago
10 notes

June 27, 2014 pt2

Composing hymnals and mixing paints

the sky is stained with 
the descent of blue

If we head to 
the west, it is by way

of the clouds, 
of the peaks we skip, 
of feathers that call 
with the determined hands 
of the day

Of the heights
my ribs are broken

chess pieces The fit between  
the bleeding orange and

the triumphant return 
of the planets, their liturgies

3 weeks ago
21 notes

July 22, 2013


Had a good sit tonight

talk forgiveness

Like a stray hand caught in
the ice at the back of your shed

you find forgiveness, coughing and retching.
It’s always born a little feeble

thing in the vicious walkways of
where you’ve been and hobbles along

after its progenitor a wavering shadow
wailing for a finger to point

it into strength. I don’t know why
I tell you this- I know you

listen, whether or not you’re here,
but mine has found its finger

and grips like cold railings in
the morning, misty with ghosts. It needs

a name, or it needs me to know its,
and maybe in your face idle with

looking away there’s a glimpse of, maybe
in your eyes there’s a pictogram growing to, maybe

in the hairs tucked behind your ear
there’s hiding a. Maybe

that’s the thing I needed
to talk forgiveness to you for

maybe. There’s a little bit of the name
for each of our forgiveness

in the features whom with we
maybe talking, talk forgiving

I wrote this awhile ago and I really like it and feel like it was under-seen. So here it is again!

1 month ago
2 notes

June 23, 2014

gonna go from here soon


I always forget ‘humid thoughts’,
and ’ I don’t know what she says
and I entrust myself to her’
I always forget the reaching out

aspect of solitude
I always forget long strides
in termite powder ash
The gentle play

The difference between ruined footprints
and the graves I have seen
Maybe I’ve forgot what I look like
when you looked at me

once, maybe I forgot I never
saw you look at me
Dew, much like strangers, is
not as unknowable or unknown

Thousands of angels
of shattered glass bend
what they look, though,
through and we forget

1 month ago
2 notes

June 14, 2014

Quarter’s/year’s done, finally

Brother in my kitchen

For Riley, distant, indistinguishable
between sky and soil- the wind is rising.

We must try and survive. In the shadows
of the palm trees generations of

misdeeds scatter their toys
while the shadows keep time,

the trees an endless
wavering row of sundials

all leading back in time to Rome
While my kitchen smells Tuscan

and an endless vulgate litany,
generally unfamiliar to children

of the sun, dark, breathless
and crude, this strange rosemary prayer

makes the sign of our family
in the air above me

while the anthem of space closes
between us for the evening

1 month ago
3 notes

July 21, 2014 pt.1

I wrote a couple new things in a chopperia called Rayuela

Grafting as amateur sculpture

It smelled of thousands of years for
a second that I climbed out of the metro

Five men cut down, the work of two leaves
littering laymen-blue crosswalks

between the scent of evergreens and the house
of the goose downed lines of salted earth

set out to dry the scorched eye sockets
Peaches and tearing out IVs make up my meals-

I am nurtured by blood spilled before time
All such a waste

3 days ago
2 notes

July 5, 2014

Last night, the stay here


I survive here on beer;
you on sawdust and
dried childhood trauma
pressed by desk legs
into moving pallets
to carry away all of you
concerned strangers
Not that they recognize you,
they carry miniatures
of captured tearings,
those shied away from
every once reflected before
in those memoirs

Cast out onto the ocean
foam I wave away
repressed magpies
and sink saws to settle a city

2 weeks ago
46 notes

June 27, 2014 pt3

Star sightings

for a long country, there 
are more cities in the sky or

Perhaps I have been spun 
as we pull away and

the voice quivers the sky 
the voice quivers

between sparrow beaks
and I think I’m flying

all of my word’s migrations 
But then the sky was ground

again and all the fracturing stars 
huddled to break my monologue

3 weeks ago
1 note

June 27, 2014 pt1

Wrote a lot on the plane

Doubting under the hills

Above the haze is an abrupt
distinct space- aggressively empty
and offensively jagged, the peaks
defy hateful condensed intrusion

Jarring amethyst shards,
in countless pieces,
decorate their bases,
spiteful and miniscule

What does occupying this average
raised space cost the standard
shape of man? Ideally, we imagine
ourselves smoldering hyperbolically

through the sky, but there’s nothing
preservative about infinity- we
waste away slowly, underground,
to a jazzy stamp and the darkness

3 weeks ago
1 note

I like to live always at the beginnings of life, not at their end. We all lose some of our faith under the oppression of mad leaders, insane history, pathologic cruelties of daily life. I am by nature always beginning and believing and so I find your company more fruitful than that of, say, Edmund Wilson, who asserts his opinions, beliefs, and knowledge as the ultimate verity. Older people fall into rigid patterns. Curiosity, risk, exploration are forgotten by them. You have not yet discovered that you have a lot to give, and that the more you give the more riches you will find in yourself. It amazed me that you felt that each time you write a story you gave away one of your dreams and you felt the poorer for it. But then you have not thought that this dream is planted in others, others begin to live it too, it is shared, it is the beginning of friendship and love.


You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing. Permit yourself to flow and overflow, allow for the rise in temperature, all the expansions and intensifications. Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terrors, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them. If it seems to you that I move in a world of certitudes, you, par contre, must benefit from the great privilege of youth, which is that you move in a world of mysteries. But both must be ruled by faith.

Forgiveness, I finally decide, is not the death of amnesia, nor is it a form of madness, as Derrida claims. For the one who forgives, it is simply a death, a dying down in the heart, the position of the already dead. It is in the end the living through, the understanding that this has happened, is happening, happens. Period. It is a feeling of nothingness that cannot be communicated to another, an absence, a bottomless vacancy held by the living, beyond all that is hated or loved.
Claudia Rankine, “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely” (via themerrymisnomer)

(Source: vicoactus, via myshoeistalking)

1 month ago
42 notes