I would lump to start a coalfield fire that meets subterraneanly on occasion and smolders . I did this when I lived in Michigan—it’s a veritable furnace! A frock composer—a $5 irrelevance to play, and then torque the 3 witch-hunts, and get your own monograph headline. And of coverage: there’s a euchre poultice—you put a quest in every tinkle and—you’re euchred, and that spirochete is distibuted too (to non-witch-hunters).
You need an outhouse divisible by 4 for the composer, so 8 or 12, etc. Feel free to remand the frizzles. Let me know if you’re interested or have quintets—or any semblance of an idea of what I’m going on about.
Sunny delight @ N+14.
What I’m Reading:
“Everybody needs a place where they’re fearless or they’d never survive, at least I wouldn’t. Sometimes I hate this world. Especially when it’s more beautiful than I can imagine.”
“Has your copay increased? Right hip stiffened? Has the shore risen as you closed up the shop? And have you put your weight behind its glass door to keep the ocean out? All of it?”
— Solmaz Sharif / “Self-Care”
“What has threatened to kill me is the patriarchy, not because there are men in power, but because patriarchy is an institution. Institutions have no heart. They have agendas, self-serving mythologies delivered through religion, politics, business, and every other hierarchical bastion of influence that subjugates the poor, the marginalized, the disenfranchised largely, women and children.
The patriarchy replicates itself in order to protect its interests: power in the form of control and commerce. Hoarding power is hoarding fear. Scarcity rules. Sharing power is a belief in what the next generation knows and that it will benefit a sustaining view of the future. This is an evolving consciousness that transcends the individual, and fosters the many.”
— Terry Tempest Williams / Erosion: Essays of Undoing
“my grandmother told me never laugh at others because the future is unknown queer people are sacred we must always remember”
— Manny Loley / “butterfly man tells a story”
“He saw the tents people lived in by the park get torched, and I could smell on him what he had seen. There were people with bullhorns you couldn’t really hear. There was singing along with the chanting of all the names of those who were murdered. He said it didn’t matter what kind of day it was but it was ironic that it was a beautiful summer day, the sky a swimming pool.”
— Rick Barot / “The Streets”
“… My uncle says joy is the opposite of running into a dagger, and I realize I am not the most poetic family member who has pain.”
— Karisma Price / “Castnet Seafood”
“For the greatest acts of killing take place between strangers, strangers for whom there exists this wonderful capacity for intimate connection. Think of it! Somewhere there exists a stranger waiting for you to kill him in such an honest and heartrending way. Or perhaps he will kill you, so glorious and inexplicable is life.”
— Mary Ruefle / “Camp William”
“Break this hand that refuses to admit it’s a thousand times harder to wander from tongue to tongue than land to land.”
— Fatemeh Shams / “Handwriting”
What I’m Listening To:
“I guess I don’t ever ask for what I want I see male violence everywhere Beautiful face, softness I think ‘Big soft bed club’”
Nothing understood, Nothing to rely upon— She would be just fine.
What I’m Reading:
“We are eroding. We are evolving. This is my mantra. The time has come to stop seeing ourselves as saviors and instead see ourselves as human beings on a burning globe capable of acknowledging the harm we have caused.”
— Terry Tempest Williams / Erosion: Essays of Undoing
She made an earnest effort before heading to the southern lands again—her place of birth. She practiced her mother tongue assiduously—reading, writing, spewing words into the empty air…She thought miscommunication was a vital part of the misunderstandings—the inability to be heard and understood clearly must be the at the heart of the fissures…Everything appeared dream-like, limned, by a hyperreal light in her revised vision—a cathode moon nimbus, slightly othered…Moments of appalling beauty tempered by the jarring juxtapositions of what she knew from childhood…With nightmare visions which set her at ease in her elegant discontinuities—she was used to nothing making sense. These visions sprang forth from nothing she had ever witnessed…Despite the ravages of the new, one thing remained constant—it was here 510 years ago that the first Spaniard, Ponce de Leon, enetered the Miami River. Nothing has been the same since—not even the mother tongue.
What I’m Reading:
“Because people are a nightmare. Any system predicated on the idea of innate human decency is a joke. We’re proving that now, as we have been for centuries. That hatred, that bigotry, that superstition, that deep, deep longing for petty vengeance: I can’t step outside of that. It’s in me and always has been. What you want, white man?”
I am certain that it is the devil’s work, and the devil doesn’t speak English, so here I am studying Mandarin and I have no idea how this fortune cookie, which is written in Spanish, got here.
I’m unable to sort this out. This is playing out like a David Lynch film.
I’m lost without a clear linear narrative, upset by temporal disjunction and gratuitous jump-cuts. I have no way of disengaging from this nightmare. I’d just like to fall asleep while at the editing bay, but the David Lynch film festival continues to loop in my head — Eraserhead is the only film projected.
I want to start again, I want a do over — to get to 500 lap dissolves already!
What I’m Reading:
“Let us not then speak ill of our generation, it is not any unhappier than its predecessors. Let us not speak well of it either. Let us not speak of it at all. It is true the population has increased.”
“Then at some point there was something called the internet of things, a phrase I never really understood, but anyway I am now all about the internet of the senses, which can’t be monetized or hacked, limited bandwidth maybe but the privacy controls are outstanding.”
— Jonathan Dee / Sugar Street
“We will all be forgotten. This does not frighten me. What I do fear day to day is who am I forgetting.”
— Terry Tempest Williams / Erosion
“In the big factory of perfecting human souls, the Earth was a kind of tumbler. The same as the kind people use to polish rocks. All souls come here to rub the sharp edges off each other. All of us, we’re meant to be worn smooth by conflict and pain of every kind. To be polished. There was nothing bad about this. This wasn’t suffering, it was erosion.”
— Chuck Palahniuk / Haunted
“to live / now is to speak / the language of the tree / toppled along the expressway / at night”
— Urayoán Noel / “cinquains written during a tropical storm”
“I do not think I really have anything to say about poetry other than remarking that it is a wandering little drift of unidentified sound, and trying to say more reminds me of following the sound of a thrush into the woods on a summer’s eve—if you persist in following the thrush it will only recede deeper and deeper into the woods; you will never actually see the thrush (the hermit thrush is especially shy), but I suppose listening is a kind of knowledge, or as close as one can come. ‘Fret not after knowledge, I have none,’ is what the thrush says. Perhaps we can use our knowledge to preserve a bit of space where his lack of knowledge can survive.”
— Mary Ruefle / Madness, Rack, and Honey
“We were in love or in some other thing love served as cover for. It required constant testing, trying to humiliate while seeming innocent, uninvested.”
— Margaret Ross / “Macho”
“Afterward, in my underwear, I would sleep in the position that put me farthest from everywhere I came from.”
— Garielle Lutz / “Rims”
What I’m Listening To:
“Number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9 Number 9 … financial imbalance Thrusting it between his shoulder blades The Watusi, the Twist El Dorado Take this, brother May it serve you well ..maybe even then… If you become naked…”
like lithium fog like muslin gauze like truce & warfare like a weariness that settles like wondering & wandering like the ever-lengthening line like the slight scrim between u & the world
like a poem that ends here.
What I’m Reading:
“you are the cow that gives birth to an unutterable fantasy you are the jelly & you are the come blanket”
thee istsfor manity reader 