Saturday, August 31, 2013


“This story begins Amen and ends Our Father. It gets everything backward. It understands in part if it understands at all, but it yearns impossibly for grace even in its successes. There is some love in this story, though not enough. In that it is like me and like life. Though it has rules, they change. It digs through grief with an old shovel, gives up, burns the shovel, digs with the ashes. Both ways the progress is the same But one way there’s light, the blue talc of ashes rubbed on the face, and the brute proximity. The ashes, thus, come from burning. Next is the sackcloth, then the Our Father.”

— “Amen” by Andrew Hudgins

(Source: waxpapereyes)

Sunday, August 25, 2013

"To the Young Who Want to Die," Gwendolyn Brooks

 Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.

The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.
You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death has
a lot of time. Death can
attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.

You need not die today.
Stay here—through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow.

Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

(Source: theangryblackwoman)

Monday, August 12, 2013


I find that a lot of poets on Tumblr are beginning to sound alike, which is unfortunate because the world is large enough to contain a wider range of voices. There is only one Bukowski, one Plath, one Sexton. Every day people ask me for advice, and today my advice is simply to be yourself —whatever that means. While likes and reblogs can be reaffirming, they mean nothing if the writer cannot stand behind the work.

if this post
was like this
I think that
more people would notice.
but who cares?
(my darling; you should care)
we are all decaying organisms
and everything is derivative anyway.
of us just need
to be derivative of someone else.

Saturday, August 10, 2013
Maybe it was the snow, or something in the snow
that was confusing.
Maybe if you didn’t limit your hungers
to the things that never hold you
you’d find something satisfying.
from A Primer For the Small Weird Loves, Richard Siken (via horologists)
Friday, August 2, 2013


A woman pours so much hand sanitizer on her hands that it runs off and spills all over the floor. It is pooling at her feet. She continues pouring it. A security guard comes over. Ma’am, you’re causing a disturbance. I’m going to have to ask you to leave. The security guard slips, falls. The security guard is covered in hand sanitizer. The security guard is so clean. The woman is so clean. The woman’s hands are so clean.


I’m in love with people’s hands and the way they clench their fists and the way their fingertips lightly press down onto piano keys or thighs. Calloused fingers or dainty fingers. Hands writing poems or memos or parking tickets. Hands writing futures. To me, every crease on the palm is a love line.

Despite what you’ve read, your sadness is not beautiful. No one will see you in the bookstore, curled up with your Bukowski, and want to save you.

Stop waiting
for a salvation that will not come from the grey-eyed boy looking for an annotated copy of Shakespeare,
for an end to your sadness in Keats.
He coughed up his lungs at 25, and flowery words cannot conceal a life barely lived.

Your life is fragile, just beginning, teetering on the violent edge of the world.

Your sadness will bury you alive, and you are the only one who can shovel your way out with hardened hands and ragged fingernails, bleeding your despair into the unforgiving earth.

Darling, you see, no heroes are coming for you. Grab your sword, and don your own armor.

(via bodypartss)

(Source: starredsoul)

Thursday, August 1, 2013


Neil Hilborn - “OCD” (Rustbelt 2013) (by Button Poetry)

She was the most beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.