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@wordinhand
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.  What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.  What I thought was an injustice turned out to be a color of the sky. excerpt from Tony Hoaglandâs âA Color of the SkyâÂ
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âI will cut adriftâI will sit on pavements and drink coffeeâI will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swimâthis fine October.â
â Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry c. October 1927 featured in âDiaries,â (via violentwavesofemotion)
I had a voice that said, I want! I want? I? It should have told me she wants, he wants, they want. And moreover, it's love that makes reality reality. The opposite makes the opposite.
Henderson the Rain King, Saul BellowÂ
Jenny Holzer
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Aubade
Joanna Klink
Who lives where summer ends knows the hard cold of
      autumn is blissfully       close, although it feels       each season newly un-
known. You are constantly newly unknown to me, my night-glowing open-hearted
      sting-of-salt weather.       Rains and winds, sleights-of-       hand. Who if not you
could weigh me enough down. Youâd paint my eyes blacker and warmer than they are
      and soon they would carry       whole calendars of       black night in them.
You say youâre pulled back, but it is a rare thing inside those
     shocks of minutes that      holds without our even      needing to touch it.
Maybe you think you trade one clean joy for
      another. But mine is darker,       slanted, nitrous blue at the root,
an acrostic of what is most free and far. To be another
      person than the one       you were before means       more than I understand.
But my gradual hands move in streams over you whether you travel or not,
      as you drop into sleep or not,       and in the book of this       most-alone-place I am
there only when you feel need, a coat so thin and so like
     skin you can touch the      slopes, the smoother
pools, dust-mooded winds over roads, the skeleton instrument of your voice
      as it richens the maps       and paths, summerâs last       shades of white on dark soil,
as if the moon-moth and house-mouth were
      close against the lashes       of your eyes, puzzles-in-       flutter, or wandering
off through the warm night air, unlikely ever again to find such light as this.
Source: Boston Review
Lee Crutchley
REJOICE! OUR TIMES ARE INTOLERABLE: Jenny Holzerâs Street Posters, 1977-1982
via Huffington Post
I do not intend to make only representations of reality⌠I photograph from my emotions with an intuitive response to the landâŚ. At times I reflect what I see, at times I pay homage to what exists or has been lostâŚ.
- Romeo Di Loreto
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano wonât work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up waiting for the plumber I still havenât called. This is the everyday we spoke of. Itâs winter again: the skyâs a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through the open living-room windows because the heatâs on too high in here and I canât turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking, Iâve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve, I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning. What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kissâwe want more and more and then more of it. But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and Iâm gripped by a cherishing so deep for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that Iâm speechless: I am living. I remember you.
Marie Howe, âWhat The Living Doâ (via thoughtsforbees)
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BeyoncĂŠ in Third Person
Morgan Parker I type BeyoncĂŠ into my phone five out of seven days a week. Thatâs because I am a woman. Iâm a little unpolished behind the scenes. I am lonely and so are all my friends. When one season of The Real Housewives closes, another one opens. New moons disappear unmagically. I am very complicated and so is BeyoncĂŠ. Dogs in their gait of privilege circle her. Snow falls for her, shellacks windows for her. BeyoncĂŠ, are you sure youâre ok? I slice lemons in my quiet apartment and pile them on a step. When I think about revolution, I turn to the B side of Dangerously in Love. I sequin my breasts like morning shells, teeth sucked as performance. People say things they think are true, like âI love youâ and âI feel in a particular way.â I want to be so close and bold. In the news today BeyoncĂŠ went to brunch this weekend. Two neighborhoods over, dressed in all black. Comparing salad recipes and third-wheeling weekend dinners dog kibble in my loafers seducing my self in sweatpants is not how I envisioned my 20s or is it. In high school I made a mix tape called âLadies Is Pimps Too.â That was long before my therapist asked about my masculinity while new buds in Riverside Park slobbered with rain. The only dream Iâve had all year is the one where I am driving out of control. The brakes are shot, the landscape changes, accelerate instead of stop. Itâs almost too obvious to interpret, like teeth or pomegranates, or ocean. If you arenât interested in self- absorption, do not follow me on Twitter. Sometimes I think I should have been left in the incubator longer. Everyone got high levels of entitlement in our veins. We think we are owed. Everything, but especially silence. A secret is during commercials I am living other lives, sauteing green vegetables, imagining Spring breeze carry me through the apartment like a branch, or a painter. There is no humor in touch, the absolute truth. If I breathed on BeyoncĂŠ, would she begin to weep? I go to sleep, itâs dark, no one breathes. source: Prelude
What weâre reading
øjeRum, Needleshaped Silence III
The Sunlight Miguel Murphy You wouldnât know it could feel so redundantâ the wolfish starlings plunder the grass and nothing burns. Big Sur. We came here to rest. The coast, a color. The thought of nothing, the blue middle of my lifeâ                           A cliff side and a footpath down to the small beach. And fire, there a cold wind. Long waves the whole yearârestless, leafy and metallic,                    the brightness of ash. The sunlight like something from Tarkovsky, one pointless, small ambition in which passion turns into a terrifying tenderness. Deep cargo in the hull; heartache. And somehow you knew you should light the match, like a person condemned to whom the starlight is another brief monument to what                                  is fallible. Your life, little fireling, little warlike starling, flickering indignantly, all erotic umbrage. Broken wing in my hand. Pathological, shy flame, I will care for you. Little shape of my fate, my certain failure. What                   is desire, if not this burden. Dearth and glut cupped in your hands: wild, deadheaded, and blue.
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Do we simply stare at whatâs horrible and forgive it?
Richard Siken, from âSnow and Dirty RainâÂ
The satisfactory inexpensiveness of nowhere, Lee Kyutae
