into the New Year

:)

back in time

first web cam blurry happy some 9 years back
probably my favourite photo of all

the plan

get up early. run with the dog go for a swim regardless of. feel good. help with the shopping. come back. clean. clean more. clean everything. make everything very clean. throw away all crap. feel good. go dancing. go out. go look for beautiful faces. go hunt happy couples, walk close behind them, unnoticed. steal their smell. go out. out. feel pretty.be funny find faces find something that might shine.not to feel sad. not to pay much heart for words. not to believe. to believe. not to look down befor e falling hold hands with someone when falling make it a flight not a suicide. not to look down.
make sure there's a sea beneath not cement. stop makiing sure stop being sure. rip letters open not with a knife. be brave not careless be loving be wise be golden believe in light believe in everyone anything. fall in love. let go. fall again. let go. again. go

Berenice
Beneath it all you´re golden
And that´s all I´m feeding on
And though my head my hands are growing colder
We move circles now

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

-Mary Oliver

the fox

i wish you were here

Photos by Julie de Waroquier

el bus

Durante un par de semanas los pasajeros del 106 de 8.00 a 8.30 de la mañana tuvimos que escuchar a los Smiths - el conductor era un tío joven con gafas, pelo largo, y daba la impresión que nos odiaba a todos muy sinceramente.

Desde hace unos días hay un conductor nuevo - tiene unos 50 años, pone radio Murta y canta con el radio temas baleareñas de los 60 y 70 - dulces y ridiculas. Me esperaba hoy parado para que llega corriendo y no pierda el bus. Me gusta mucho màs que el de los Smiths:)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJWNcXV884I&feature=related

names

We use our names scarcely
We treat them with caution

Yours is a warm stone my hand pulls from the left inside pocket,
Holds back to you, arm outstretched.

And sometimes next to your mouth i can see a cartoon bubble with tasha written inside.
The bubble then bursts
And a flock of feathers whirls softly in the air

Yet most of the times we apply safe names like baby and sweetheart,
Commonly used by millions of lovers

The Ubiquity Of The Need For Love

I leave the number and a short
message on every green Volvo
in town
Is anything wrong?
I miss you.
574-7423
The phone rings constantly.
One says, Are you bald?
Another, How tall are you in
your stocking feet?

Most just reply, Nothing's wrong.
I miss you, too.

Come quick.

Ronald Koertge

quiero quiero quierooooo:)))

And if the snow buries my, my neighborhood. And if my parents are crying then I'll dig a tunnel from my window to yours, yeah a tunnel from my window to yours. You climb out the chimney and meet me in the middle, the middle of the town. And since there's no one else around, we let our hair grow long and forget all we used to know, then our skin gets thicker from living out in the snow.
You change all the lead sleepin' in my head, as the day grows dim I hear you sing a golden hymn.
Then we tried to name our babies, but we forgot all the names that,
the names we used to know. But sometimes, we remember our bedrooms, and our parent's bedrooms, and the bedrooms of our friends. Then we think of our parents, well what ever happened to them?!
You change all the lead sleepin' in my head to gold, as the day grows dim, I hear you sing a golden hymn, the song I've been trying to sing
Purify the colors, purify my mind. Purify the colors, purify my mind, and spread the ashes of the colors over this heart of mine

The Tips Of Your Fingers

A slackening rain offers its small rhythm
to the rooftop, a soft shudder runs
through the house. On the radio,
Roethke is reading
of a woman he knew.
You are wearing
one of my shirts.



Now, I know it’s no more
possible to own a moment
than a person, but sometimes
we can settle into one,
like a tide returning from the shore,
a soft relaxing back into the sea.

Wind slides the unlatched door
open, mist from the rain
catches the ends of your hair.
On the tips of your fingers,
my body seems achingly beautiful.

Today, we could begin to grow
back every limb we have lost.

Andy Weaver

3 months after..

.. sigo siendo loca:) parece que esto no se cura:)

http://gingerandclove.blogspot.com/2010/09/al-levantar-esta-manana-senti-una.html

*

boa noite*

because yes, yes, yes

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic

and she said yes

I asked her if it was okay to be short

and she said it sure is

I asked her if I could wear nail polish

or not wear nail polish

and she said honey

she calls me that sometimes

she said you can do just exactly

what you want to

Thanks God I said

And is it even okay if I don't paragraph

my letters

Sweetcakes God said

who knows where she picked that up

what I'm telling you is

Yes Yes Yes

by Kaylin Haught

*

lets make jam get ready for winter

*

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

eecummings

Wait

Wait, for now.

Distrust everything, if you have to.

But trust the hours. Haven't they

carried you everywhere, up to now?

Personal events will become interesting again.

Hair will become interesting.

Pain will become interesting.

Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.

Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,

their memories are what give them

the need for other hands. And the desolation

of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness

carved out of such tiny beings as we are

asks to be filled; the need

for the new love _is_ faithfulness to the old.

Wait.

Don't go too early.

You're tired. But everyone's tired.

But no one is tired enough.

Only wait a while and listen.

Music of hair,

Music of pain,

music of looms weaving all our loves again.

Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,

most of all to hear,

the flute of your whole existence,

rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Galway Kinnel

:)

- tampoco fumo. a vezes pretendo.
- te he visto fumar en "Lisboa".
- no.. estaba
- ..pretendiendo?
- si..

- es que.. no me sale. no sé que hacer con el humo.
- no sabes tragarlo
- no se tragarlo...el humo.
- el humo

and a good weekend to everyone:)

The Day The Saucers Came

That day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn't notice it because

That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because

On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-man's nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold, and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because

On the saucer-zombie-battling gods day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across the land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because

That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of the Time Machine day,
You didn't notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.

Neil Gaiman

Sharing one umbrella,
We have to hold each other,
Round the waist to keep together,
You ask me why I'm smiling-
It's because I'm thinking,
I want it to rain forever.

Nicki Feaver

Gratitude

To think of gratitude and to think of thank you cards
instead, the small panic of them, the pressure
to buy the ones with black and white Parisian photograph
covers and the blank insides, ready for your profound message,
you writer, you beautiful liar; you are supposed to be good at this.

So you write, Thank you for the flowers. I don’t know
what to call them, but they are pink and I plan
on taking them to bed with me in your absence. You write,
Thank you for the reminder you’re eight hundred miles away.
You draw pictures of hot air balloons and trolley cars and
inaccurate maps of the United States with dash dashed arrow
routes that point from one stick person holding flowers
to another stick person empty handed.

And when it is too hard to be thankful for anything
other than the fact that at least the two of you aren’t dead yet,
you call, despite the time zone difference and impossible hour,
to say, Walk west so that I can hear your footsteps better.


Leigh Stein

Sabado

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
to examine,
evaluate,
compute
what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking : Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That's all taken care of.

BUT

if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
instead of me.

Richard Brautigan

The Sublime

And what good is a dream finally? It breaks your head open
and cello music pours out of a stranger's window and the most
gorgeous woman you ever loved says to the hit the road and you do
see them—that stranger and this woman. Kissing everywhere.

In the trees. On boats. In the kitchen cupboards. The fog
of daily life never lifts and the checkbook needs proper
calculations and the dog would like supper please and now
without warning the dream returns. It breaks your head open.

You lie there for a week and no one finds you until the dog
having lost its dignity finally eats and when there is no more
howls. It howls. And you are a missing person, a passage
of shit quivered into the dirt. A good boy. A terrible dream

someone picks up with a plastic bag wrapped in his hand
to throw away and you are thrown away. You do it every day.
Walking too early, driving to work, working and returning.
Reading poems of great beauty and crying at the movies.

Touching the hair of your niece who laughs at water. Flying
over cornfields so close and so openly that when you wake
there is silk in your beard. Your arms are tired and hang
at your sides like the wings of a migratory bird who is about

to die. And what good is a dream finally? It breaks your heart
and you stand in the lush dark of the moment after twilight
ends and begin to sing and nothing makes sense to you
and you sing louder for a while, then awkwardly sit down

where you are. And the stars overhead shine a little—no more
or less than usual—and whether it is daylight and they are invisible
or whether it is night and they are the embers of a blacksmith's
fire, they shine and you are grateful. That love is like a hammer.

Steve Scafidi

for a rainy Sunday evening

What you want to say most
is inadmissible.
Say it anyway.
Say it again.
What they tell you is irrelevant
can’t be denied and will
eventually be heard.
Every question
is a leading question.
Ask it anyway, then expect
what you won’t get.
There is no such thing
as the original
so you’ll have to make do
with a reasonable facsimile.
The history of the world
is hearsay. Hear it.
The whole truth
is unspeakable
and nothing but the truth
is a lie.
I swear this.
My oath is a kiss.
I swear
by everything
incredible.


Lee Robinson

hangover you

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3YBX0OfNzA&feature=related

photo: roger ballen

We are all in a dance

goodnight

*

"... E se fosse só amor, o amor?"
...

I HAVE BEEN ON A LONG RUN TO NOWHERE

U (and others)

and



and, of course




aaah...completely smashed by the guy:)

All Answers to the Same Question

1. The Union Negotiator

I have a deal for you:
tonight when I sleep I'll think of you.
Of red rocks, of bull pens and spurs,
Kansas Turnpike, of Missouri,
how you'll meet me there,
a continental divide, the places where two ends meet.
My legs will make a circle around you, your waist;
my lips will have secrets to slip over yours like a paper bag.

2. The Cartographer

I am land-locked. I am Paraguay at sunset, something swallowing
the sun beyond banana trees. I heard it once drop like a bomb
into clay; no one made a sound while the echo had its way
with ears across a jungle. I am land-locked here.
There are roads out in all directions; veins, but no seaways.
I will find you in water,
I will be the way you breathe.

3. The Neurologist

How you connect these gaps between cities:
electrical charges, phone lines. I am with you in an instant
and back again, the other side of a world, a coin.
A pulse felt in fingers; you are alive, burrowed beneath folds
of flesh. The way flesh folds you inside,
the way the brain cuts corners at all costs.

4. The Performance Artist

A cup of tea
on a saucer
on the west edge of a round table.
You are the tea,
I am sipping you, I might be
the scone.

5. The Tailor

I wrapped parts of you around me for warmth
and it worked: your arm as a stole, the barrel of your chest
a place for my lips to hide, your legs as leather belt.
I drew chalk doodles on the bedsheets, you said, What for?
I said, I will stitch a knock-off from your sweat.

6. The Demolitionist

There is a moment between plunge and blast, where I live,
these seconds. Where there is perfect and quiet calm,
an exhale and a resignation, I will crumble.
This wreckage is a series of broken bricks;
remember what it was, that moment:
the world pressing in. I am a window on the fourteenth floor,
I see where the city ends, the roads failing into dust.

7. The Palm Reader

Your hand sliding down my back knows omens
when it sees them. The patterns change, but all these lines
were once people the way you and I were once people.
This compass its own rose, all directions lead back to the center,
back to your cheek, your earlobe. This palm
knows your face, where it belongs: resting there.

Charles Jensen

Antonio Merino

A Single Slice Reveals Them

An apple on the table


hides its seeds

so neatly

under seamless skin.


But we talk and talk and talk

to let somebody

in.

by Naomi Shihab Nye

A2F

)*

Port of Call

To land onto my own page i inevitably go through yours. A stop over that makes it easier - you are on the top of the searchbar - to arrive to the home page (valid reason) and also multiplies your name on my sitemeter (not a valid reason. please return to the previous posting).

Imagination, the supreme delight of the immortal and the immature, should be limited. In order to enjoy life, we should not enjoy it too much.

VVNabokov

Anka Zhuravleva

Grammar

Maxine, back from a weekend with her boyfriend,
smiles like a big cat and says
that she’s a conjugated verb.
She’s been doing the direct object
with a second person pronoun named Phil,
and when she walks into the room,
everybody turns:

some kind of light is coming from her head.
Even the geraniums look curious,
and the bees, if they were here, would buzz
suspiciously around her hair, looking
for the door in her corona.
We’re all attracted to the perfume
of fermenting joy,

we’ve all tried to start a fire,
and one day maybe it will blaze up on its own.
In the meantime, she is the one today among us
most able to bear the idea of her own beauty,
and when we see it, what we do is natural:
we take our burned hands
out of our pockets,
and clap.

Tony Hoagland

Lila Downs

just realised it's her i've been rehearsing to for weeks at the dance class..

Domingo

Sabado

Sara Broun

Stand under fountain
Cool skin, washed clean
Wash him from me

Along comes the wind
The big bone shaker
Blows off my clothes
Completely naked
What to do
When everything's left you?

Out of the blue
It is he
Vision to me
Bearing leaves
Petals green
Covers me and all my shame

Hand in hand
He's my big man
Stays with me
Some forty days
No words
Then goes away
I cry again

On my hill I wait for wind
And on my hill I wait for wind
And on my hill I wait for wind
And on my hill I wait for wind
And on my hill I wait for wind
And on my hill I wait for wind

fact

Out of the last 25 posts in this blog 15 are saved as drafts

accident

"If you read someone else's diary, you get what you deserve."
— David Sedaris

Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood on the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell.

Ted Kooser

all over you

Well, after my cigarette's been smoked up,
After all my liquor's been drunk,
After my dreams are dreamed out,
After all my thoughts have been thunk...

Starts early
With eyes still closed i breath in your name
-sometimes it's long and goes in slowly -
syl-la-ble-by-syl-la-ble,
but most often it's a sudden gasp of air

My ribcage expands
Good morning

Throughout the day i exhale-inhale you
Intending to be conscientious
Aware of the danger
Keeping the pace
Measuring the dose

Later (say around ten)
Things get out of control
Tornadoes come
Head rushes alternate with airless gaps

I fling the windows open
Let the rain in

Poor Fools

You ask why poets speak so often
In the language of goodbyes.
It’s because beginnings take them by surprise.
Love comes and hammers them,
And then the poor fools are lost for words.
They abandon their pens, and their fingers
Itch for other things: buttons, nipples, zips –
For everything but the poor abandoned pen.

Brian Patten

*

Decided to leave with you all the things you gave me. couldn't have them touching me, burning through skin. you brought them back. now i have this black box, sealed forever, bearing all those tokens. cannot open. cannot throw away. a memory explosive.

There's something i did keep.

That night in May, remember, when our hotel happened to be in the middle of the FCP celebration, the crazy happy madness, and we stood on the balcony and below thousands of blue people celebrated us, the king and the queen, and it rained silver and gold, and the glittery paper straps flew into our room through the open balcony doors.

I kept one.

Couldn't throw away.

Saturrrday

fact

careful poetry
and careful
people
last
only long
enough
to
die
safely.

Bukowski

Las Ruinas del Corazon

Juana the Mad married the handsomest man in Spain
and that was the end of it, because when you marry a man

more beautiful than you, they said you pretty much lost control
of the situation. Did she ever listen? No. When he was away

annexing more kingdoms, she had horrible dreams
of him being cut and blown apart, or spread on the rack,

or sleeping with exotic women. She prayed to the twin guardians
of the Alhambra, Saint Ursula and Saint Susana, to send him home

and make him stay forever. And they answered her prayers
and killed Philip the Handsome at twenty-eight.

Juana the Mad was beside herself with grief, and she wrapped
his body in oil and lavender, and laid him out in a casket of lead,

and built a marble effigy of the young monarch in sleep,
and beside it her own dead figure, so he would never think

he was alone. And she kept his body beside her, and every day
for the next twenty years, as pungent potions filled the rooms,

she peeked into his coffin like a chef peeks into his pot,
and memories of his young body woke her adamant desire.

She wanted to possess him entirely, and since not even death
may oppose the queen, she found a way to merge death and life

by eating a piece of him, slowly, lovingly, until he was entirely
in her being. She cut a finger and chewed the fragrant skin,

then sliced a thick portion of his once ruddy cheeks. Then she ate
an ear, the side of a thigh, the solid muscles of his chest,

then lunged for an eye, a kidney, part of the large intestine.
Then she diced his penis and his pebble-like testicles

and washed everything down with sweet jerez.
Then she decided she was ready to die.

But before she did, she asked the poets to record these moments
in song, and the architects to carve the song in marble,

and the marble to be selected from the most secret veins
of the earth and placed where no man could see it,

because that is the nature of love, because one walks alone
through the ruins of the heart, because the young must sleep

with their eyes open, because the angles tremble
from so much beauty, because memory moves in orbits

of absence, because she holds her hands out in the rain,
and rain remembers nothing, not even how it became itself

Eric Gamalinda

Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.


Bob Hicok

Tori Amos - Pretty Good Year Video - Tori Amos Music Videos

farewell

in Russian is the same word as "forgive".

farewell my love. forgive for whatever went wrong.

woke up at 5.30, opened the mailbox and found the photo instantly - in two clicks - how possible - with a few hundreds emails you sent me then? the one of you kissing me - all hair - half photo red half photo black and the white of my neck and your your face. all blurred. taken in the rain in march in barcelona gotico.

and drowning, grabbed onto the phone. you voice soft from the sleep. breath you said.breath.

how?

poem

wordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordsvwordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswordswords

going to start dancing again

this morning

Decided to put on that new white blouse with kind of medieval sleeves (purely dramatic act, sorry). Cutting the tag off, the scissors sleepily slipped and left a perfect heart shaped hole above the left hip. Heart shaped holes dont fit into my company's dress code so had to find and iron something else and almost missed my bus.

On the bus a big sticker in front of my nose said, in red: en caso de emergencias sigue las instrucciones. Yet instruccuiones were torn off by some bored passenger. So, having forgotten the book and the MP4 at home i spent half an hour inventing those . Quite a waste of time. They are much better like that, torn off.

The Autumn sunrises are the clearest, the air is so transparent and thin (hey:) that all things otherwise unseen are suddenly awake and visible. Like if someone would fix my eyesight.

and you say

Ты говоришь: все что было какой-то ад.
Ты говоришь: нам нужен новый формат.
Ты мне показываешь озеро кишащее змеями
Ты говоришь: ныряем,

здесь будет волшебный сад.

Я говорю: я подумаю.

Ты говоришь: ты подумай.

Я говорю: я подумаю.

Ты говоришь: ты подумай.

Я говорю: я тут посадила
несколько кустиков, тень не ахти какая,
но кислород и зелень и приятно для глаз.
Ты отвечаешь: я вижу что ты не хочешь
думать в сторону нас.

Anya Logvinova

There was a great tenderness to the sadness
when I would go there. She knew how much
I loved my wife and that we had no future.
We were like casualties helping each other
as we waited for the end. Now I wonder
if we understood how happy those Danish
afternoons were. Most of the time we did not talk.
Often I took care of the baby while she did
housework. Changing him and making him laugh.
I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before
throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with
my mouth against the tiny ear and throw
him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up.
The only way to leave even the smallest trace.
So that all his life her son would feel gladness
unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined
city of steel in America. Each time almost
remembering something maybe important that got lost.

Jack Gilbert

I have always thought a girl with an accordeon is hot beyond words:)

Maybe I should start using my dad's. I cannot play it, I´d just carry it around for hotness purposes:)

:)

Girls, take my advice, marry an animal. A wooly one is most consoling. Find a fur man, born midwinter. Reared in the mountains. Fond of boxing. Make sure he has black rubbery lips, and a sticky sweet mouth. A winter sleeper. Pick one who likes to tussle, who clowns around the kitchen, juggles hot baked potatoes, gnaws playfully on a corner of your apron. Not one mocked by his lumbering instincts, or who’s forever wrestling with himself, tainted with shame, itchy with chagrin, but a good-tempered beast who plunges in greedily, grinning and roaring. His backslapping manner makes him popular with the neighbors, till he digs up and eats their Dutch tulip bulbs. Then you see just how stuffy human beings can be. On Sundays his buddies come over to play watermelon football. When they finally get tired, they collapse on heaps of dried grass and leaves, scratching themselves elaborately, while I hand out big hunks of honeycomb. They’ve no problem swallowing dead bees stuck in the honey.

A bear boy likes to stretch out on the floor and be roughly brushed with a broom. Never tease him about his small tail, which is much like a chipmunk’s. If you do, he’ll withdraw to the hollow of some tree, as my husband has done whenever offended since he first left the broad-leafed woodlands to live in this city, which is so difficult for him. Let him be happy in his own way; filling the bathtub with huckleberries, or packing dark, earthwormy dirt under the sofa. Don’t mention the clawmarks on the refrigerator. (You know he can’t retract them.) Nothing pleases him more than a violent change in climate, especially if it snows while he’s asleep and he wakes to find the landscape blanketed. Then his teeth chatter with delight. He stamps and paws the air for joy. Exuberance is a bear’s inheritance. He likes northern light. Excuse me, please. His bellow summons me.

Let me start again. True, his speech is shaggy music. But by such gruff instruction, I come to know love. It’s difficult to hear the story of his forest years with dry eyes. He always snuffs damply at my hand before kissing it. My fingers tingle at the thought of that sensitive, mobile nose. You’ve no idea how long his tongue is. At night, I get into bed, pajama pockets full of walnuts. He rides me around the garden in the wheelbarrow now that I’m getting heavy with his cubs. I hope our sons will be much like their father, but not suffer so much discomfort wearing shoes.

The Bear-Boy of Lithuania
Amy Gerstler

*

The archipelago of kisses

We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't grow
on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy, like being
unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we shouldn't
be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get older,
kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's red door
just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. Now
what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't
water the kiss with whisky. It'll turn bright pink and explode
into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of your body
without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it illuminates
the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a special
beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The intersection
of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss. Even when
I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.


Jeffrey McDaniel (EEUU, 1967- )

more

Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist

We're volleying words back and forth. Everything she says, I have something I can say back. We're sparking, and part of me just wants to sit back and watch. We're clicking. Not because a part of me is fitting into a part of her. But because our words are clicking into each other to form sentences and our sentences are clicking into each other to form dialogue and our dialogue is clicking together to form this scene from this ongoing movie that's as comfortable as it is unrehearsed.

.......

"You know what it's all about, Nick?"
"What what's all about?"
"It, Nick. What it's all about."
"No."
"The Beatles."
"What about The Beatles?"
"They nailed it."
"Nailed what?"
"Nailed what?"
"Everything."
"What do you mean?"
Dev takes his arm and puts it right against mine, skin to skin, sweat on sweat, touch on touch. Then he glides his hand into mine and intertwines ourfingers.
"This," he says. "This is why The Beatles gt it."
"I'm afraid I'm not following..."
"Other bands, it's all about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing. You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?"
"What?"
" 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.' First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written, Because they nailed it. That's what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can't hide. Every single successful love song of the past fifty years can be traced back to 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand.' And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I've though a lot about this."

.......

And maybe I'm realizing what a part of it I am, because suddenly we're not crashing as much as we're combining. The chords swirling around us are becoming a tornado, tightening and tightening and tightening, and we are at the center of it, and we are at the center of each other. My wrist touches hers right at the point of our pulses, and I swear I can feel it. That thrum. We are moving to the music and at the same time we are at a stillness. I am not losing myself in the barrage. I am finding her. And she is - yes, she is finding me. The crowd is pressing in on us and the bassline is revealing everything and we are two people who are part of a lot more people, and at the same time we're our own part. There isn't lonliness, only this intense twoliness. There's only one way to test it, and that is to dare a movement, to push it farther and see if she wants it to go there. I find her lips and I make that kiss and she's pulling my hair and I've got the fabric of her jacket bunched in a fist and it's nothing like talking and it's right there and we're taking it and takign it and taking it. And my eyes are closed and then my eyes are open and I see her eyes are open and there's a part of her that's pulling back even as our bodies are pressing and it's the fear, of course there's the fear, and I just hold her close to tell her I understand.

:)

*

Even if I now saw you
Only once,
I would long for you
Through worlds,
Worlds.

Izumi Shikibu

He untugs himself from her and walks away, then turns. She is still there. He comes back within a few yards of her, one finger raised to make a point.
"I just want you to know. I don't miss you yet."
His face awful to her, trying to smile. Her head sweeps away from him and hits the side of the gatepost. He sees it hurt her, notices the wince. But they have separated already into themselves now, the walls up at her insistence. Her jerk, her pain, is accidental, is intentional. Her hand is near her temple.
"You will," she says.

Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote "Don't be a ninny"
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.

Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
along the shore of the page.
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's.
Another notes the presence of "Irony"
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths.
"Absolutely," they shout
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin.
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!"
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points
rain down along the sidelines.

And if you have managed to graduate from college
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature"
in a margin, perhaps now
is the time to take one step forward.

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own
and reached for a pen if only to show
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages;
we pressed a thought into the wayside,
planted an impression along the verge.

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria
jotted along the borders of the Gospels
brief asides about the pains of copying,
a bird signing near their window,
or the sunlight that illuminated their page-
anonymous men catching a ride into the future
on a vessel more lasting than themselves.

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds,
they say, until you have read him
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling.

Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page

A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil-
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet-
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

Billy Collins