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lost and found at tiny thing
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long time in storage
Sleeping in the v-berth of a 24-foot sailboat is about as comfortable as sleeping inside a catscan machine. Not quite, says Justin. Catscans don't have 40-year-old cushions.
sweet|salty
My Vocabulary Did This To Me
This ocean, humiliating in its disguises
Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry. The ocean
Does not mean to be listened to. A drop
Or crash of water. It means
Nothing.
It
Is bread and butter
Pepper and salt. The death
That young men hope for. Aimlessly
It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No
One listens to poetry.
Jack Spicer via the Edge of the American West + more at the Buffalo Electronic Poetry Center
want
hope is the thing with feathers
What I can say is that it's fading. I don't feel so ugly, so leprous. I have compassion. I still have apolcalyptic visions but they're muzzled. I am no longer quite so unpalatable. It comes naturally to stand with her as a sister, staring down the universe with rooted feet, hands on our hips, defiant. And with every day that passes I'm more able to stand with the other 98%, not so paralyzed, all of us the same, almost.
My snakes are cherished. I would not have chosen them but they're made of light now. They swirl and they float, sometimes loose and high, sometimes encircling and tangled with memory.
I have seen death, but nightmares sink to the bottom where there is also love.
sweet | salty
history is to blame
He refused to take an oath of loyalty to William and cheerfully endured three periods in prison, enjoying his intellectual pursuits and the company of his friends between such episodes. He described himself as a Jacobite, and having spent his life as an insider, became, in his final years, an outsider and indeed he has remained such. Following his final release from prison he lived out his remaining years in comfortable retirement, surrounded, in his Buckingham Street house, by his books and music, in the company of his affectionate and talented partner Mary Skinner and overlooking that permanent and much loved presence in his life, the Thames. Pepys died peacefully in 1703.
dublin review of books
want
the hermit's cabin from arvesund
chandler
I sat down at the desk and watched the light fade. The going-home sounds had died away. Outside the neon signs began to glare at one another across the boulevard. There was something to be done, but I didn't know what. Whatever it was it would be useless. I tidied up my desk, listening to the scrape of a bucket on the tiling of the corridor. I put my papers away in the drawer, straightened the pen stand, got out a duster and wiped off the glass and then the telephone. It was dark and sleek in the fading light. It wouldn't ring tonight. Nobody would ever call me again. Not now, not this time. Perhaps not ever.
I put the duster away folded with the dust in it, leaned back and just sat, not smoking, not even thinking. I was a blank man. I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name. I didn't want to eat. I didn't even want a drink. I was the page from yesterday's calendar crumpled at the bottom of the waste basket.
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