i began to see voices: Archive

Dec 31st

6 notes

Dec 31st

566 notes

2 tags

Dec 31st

24,079 notes

Dec 29th

7 tags

Dec 29th

4 notes

2 tags

Dec 29th

8 notes

4 tags

“I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can’t stop them. They...”

– Maurice Sendak on NPR I think this is an epigraph for a poem that’s been brewing. You can always count on me to bring the doom and gloom.

Dec 29th

9 notes

Today I will

make a potato stamp of a shark jaw assemble shark books for my show at the Burren on Monday night cook up some corn chowder with the leftover Christmas ham sit with my painting order a shoebox recorder ride my turquoise exercise bike set up my new apple green Kitchen Aid read the rest of White Teeth smile

Dec 29th

81 notes

3 tags

Dec 29th

157 notes

Dec 29th

23,920 notes

Dec 29th

89 notes

Dec 27th

31 notes

Dec 26th

5 tags

Fall, 2007

for Sean Eighteen came at me like a blade or a needle. I arrived at your apartment in a nightgown. It was still almost summer, warm enough to wander barefoot. The pair of us, psych ward salt and pepper shakers. You lived in the Midas room. Each bulb on the string of white lights hand-colored yellow with Sharpie, a mania precious enough to preserve. Twenty-four came over you slow, like too...

Dec 26th

14 notes

Dec 26th

1 note

Dec 25th

41 notes

Dec 25th

88 notes

2 tags

“There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.”

– Edgar Allan Poe

Dec 25th

3,451 notes

Dec 23rd

1 note

3 tags

Dec 23rd

1 note

Dec 23rd

9 notes

4 tags

Dec 21st

4 tags

Dec 21st

8,914 notes

4 tags

Augur

I worry you into song like a violin’s unmarked neck, tenor too taught to rest, shake of a blue bottle fly shedding its old case. This, the skin I wear to meet strangers, without bruise, on tenterhooks, bloodless, behaving. Lies unravel on my tongue, sugar cubes losing their corners. I am dyed rubies, slice of some cave’s cheek, my voice a rope scarring gloveless hands.

Dec 21st

4 tags

Copy Sluts

My pictures are Polaroid in the top drawer of a desk: ass up on the unmade bed reading some glossy, glancing over my shoulder, sure. Film as unstable as widow’s web. I found yours in the Vice Magazine archives, a night vision crime scene, your breasts smashed against the pane of a Xerox machine, your mouth a green-gray smear across fourteen pages. When I am alone in front of...

Dec 21st

1 tag

Dec 21st

3,025 notes

4 tags

Dec 21st

“Emily “She was a miracle to me, but when she was eight months old I had to...”

– > kill author | Issue Nine | Peter Richter | Three poems When I was in high school, my biggest act of narcissism was making mix CD’s of songs that had my name in the title. Now I go Googling for poems about girls who are not me.

Dec 21st

1 note

A comprehensive guide to everything I've ever... →

Dec 21st

dmavila asked: "Your little hoodrat friend makes me sick."

Dec 21st

5 tags