“Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! What a task to ask of anything, or anyone, yet it is ours, and not by the century or the year, but by the hours. One fall day I heard above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was a flock of snow geese, winging it faster than the ones we usually see, and, being the color of snow, catching the sun so they were, in part at least, golden. I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us as with a match, which is lit, and bright, but does not hurt in the common way, but delightfully, as if delight were the most serious thing you ever felt. The geese flew on, I have never seen them again. Maybe I will, someday, somewhere. Maybe I won't. It doesn't matter. What matters is that, when I saw them, I saw them as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.”

—Mary Oliver, Snow Geese

“It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.”

—Frank O’Hara

“Prose fills a space, like a liquid poured in from the top, but poetry occupies it, arrays itself in formation, sets up camp and refuses to budge. It is a dissenting and wilful art form, and most of its practitioners are signed-up members of the awkward squad.”

—Simon Armitage

thick compassion.
as thick as the throats of our fathers
when they have already left
but leave their words behind.
.
our fathers write on us. all over our face is their handwriting. whether they have spelled our eyes, our mouths, or the need in our brows, we can’t help but be their poem.
.

how could they think they are not important. we are houses eaten by rivers because we don’t know their
smell. when we are looking all they way through ourselves, we are looking for them. how dare they just remove themselves from our eyes. we have a right to be able to recognize our father if he walking next to us on the street.
.

what kind of heart break is he. what night was it that he decided. what did the moon look like. was he hungry. so hungry, that he would give me up. give us up. how do they give us up so easily. so willingly they take out their voice and break us from it, forget, and eat mist and guilt until we are a dream.

Tumblr and Yahoo Executives in a Boardroom

They want to acquire us
for a billion dollars

but what are their thoughts
on a billion dollars—on 
the internet as a creative platform?

but what are their thoughts
on focusing on a billion dollars—on
bloggers as the primary concern?

How will they fix
the billion dollars—the 
technical foundations
of the billion dollars—the
website?

Will they make us
a billion dollars—a
better company?

We need this. 
We need a billion dollars—we
need Yahoo. 

For a billion dollars—for
tumblr. For our billion dollars—for
our users.

Roles

Sometimes I feel like,
I am doing a cameo,
Pop in wave at the camera,
Then leave without meeting any fans,
Other times I feel like the host,
On a crappy talk show,
Stuck behind the desk or on a couch,
Shaking hands with people,
I would never associate with otherwise,
Having to smile and make nice,
I don’t like either role,
Can I be the camera man instead?

a few of my favorite things

the lullaby of
rain on the rooftop and the
fresh smell of springtime

I refrained from
writing about love,
about you,

because they
all look the same —

all asking 
you to come
back.

the color of low self esteem

what i never
learned
from my mother
was that
just because someone desires you
does
not mean they value you.
desire is the kind of thing that
eats you
and
leaves you starving.

My skin is cold metal
Cradling a melting glass heart 
And my blood is sticky black tar 
A fly trap for misfortunes
And undoings 
Spilling through my pores 
My body is bad lucks best friend

Anything But Nothing

You are not, nor will you ever be, nothing.

You are stars and planets come to dust and solidified.

You are galaxies embodied and supernovas contained.

You are the universe in scale and the universe is anything but nothing.

“I. When I was trying to quit smoking and we drank white wine from Mason jars, you called my freckles cocoa powder and I called your green eyes celery. II. I am learning how to be a grown-up who pays bills, cooks her own meals, and doesn't cry at words like I think I just want to be friends. III. The truth is this: Love is an organic thing. It rots and softens.”

—All That’s Left To Tell, Clementine von Radics
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