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