| There Are Men Too Gentle To Live Among Wolves | James Kavanaugh |
[Dec. 21st, 2009|10:37 am] |
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men too gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant's profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who devour them with eager appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant's world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.
There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love. |
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| Love: Beginnings | C.K. Williams |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|10:44 pm] |
They're at that stage where so much desire streams between them, so much
frank need and want,
so much absorption in the other and the self and the self-admiring entity
and unity they make--
her mouth so full, breast so lifted, head thrown back so far in her laughter
at his laughter,
he so solid, planted, oaky, firm, so resonantly factual in the headiness of
being craved so,
she almost wreathed upon him as they intertwine again, touch again,
cheek, lip, shoulder, brow,
every glance moving toward the sexual, every glance away soaring back in
flame into the sexual--
that just to watch them is to feel again that hitching in the groin, that filling
of the heart,
the old, sore heart, the battered, foundered, faithful heart, snorting again,
stamping in its stall. |
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| who knows if the moon's | ee cummings |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|10:09 pm] |
who knows if the moon's
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should
get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people
than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where
always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves |
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| HELP - Missing Child |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|07:20 pm] |
I need prayers and help from anyone in the Austin TX area. My 11 yr old step-son Jordan Rouse ran away from his mothers house on Friday the 18th. No one has seen him since a bus driver from Cap Metro recognized him from his picture and he had dropped Jordan and some other kids off at Metric and Howard at 1pm Friday. They live off of Parmer and Lamplight. He is now listed in the APD as a run away and they put him in the international database because at 11 he is very young to be one. Jordan was last seen wearing blue jeans, gray shirt with a royal blue hoodie with Brooklyn written on it and tie up boots.
We are all really worried and scared for him. Please keep him in your prayers and hope for a quick safe return.
UPDATE - JORDAN IS HOME SAFE |
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| Water | Mary Oliver |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|12:27 pm] |
What is the vitality and necessity
of clean water?
Ask the man who is ill, and who is lifiting
his lips to the cup.
Ask the forest. |
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| Radiator | Connie Wanek |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|05:23 am] |
Mittens are drying on the radiator,
boots nearby, one on its side.
Like some monstrous segmented insect
the radiator elongates under the window.
Or it is a beast with many shoulders
domesticated in the Ice Age.
How many years it takes
to move from room to room!
Some cage their radiators
but this is unnecessary
as they have little desire to escape.
Like turtles they are quite self-contained.
If they seem sad, it is only the same sadness
we all feel, unlovely, growing slowly cold. |
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| Suppose | Chris Powici |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|04:47 am] |
Suppose all we know of love
is a tiny greenhouse
falling slowly to bits
between a crab apple tree
and the railway's nettled bank;
a frail rickety eden
where little spiders weave
little dewy webs
on a scrunched-up Silk Cut packet
mouldering in a corner
under the tomatoes.
And suppose all we know of the world
is how the greenhouse creaks and sighs
in the cool dawn rain
and crab apple leaves brush against
the stone-cracked glass
while love grows red and ripe and soft
and summers pass like trains. |
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| No More Ghosts | Robert Graves |
[Dec. 19th, 2009|02:34 pm] |
The patriarchal bed with four posts
Which was a harbourage of ghosts
Is hauled out from the attic glooms
And cut to wholesome furniture for wholesome rooms;
Where they (the ghosts) confused, abused, thinned,
Forgetful how they sighed and sinned,
Cannot disturb our ordered ease
Except as summer dust tickles the nose to sneeze.
We are restored to simple days, are free
From cramps of dark necessity,
And one another recognize
By an immediate love that signals at our eyes.
No new ghosts can appear. Their poor cause
Was that time freezes, and time thaws;
But here only such loves can last
As do not ride upon the weathers of the past. |
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| Animals | Frank O'Hara |
[Dec. 19th, 2009|10:36 am] |
Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth
it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners
the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water
I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days |
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| The Peace That So Lovingly Decends | Noelle Kocot |
[Dec. 19th, 2009|12:28 am] |
"You" have transformed into "my loss."
The nettles in your vanished hair
Restore the absolute truth
Of warring animals without a haven.
I know, I'm as pathetic as a railroad
Without tracks. In June, I eat
The lonesome berries from the branches.
What can I say, except the forecast
Never changes. I sleep without you,
And the letters that you sent
Are now faded into failed lessons
Of an animal that's found a home. This. |
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| The Best Comics I Read in 2009 |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|01:21 pm] |
|
Puh-leeze do not mistake this for one of those scientifically produced, computer algorithm-culled, 'Best Of 2009' lists that you see in comics curious magazines like Newsweek and Wizard. This is purely the product of one seriously scatterbrained blogger who has been obsessing over funnybooks for far too long, yet still feels woefully behind in his reading. (Hell, truth be told, most of these books came out pre-2009!) The only criteria for inclusion in this list was this: Out of every comic I curled up with, huddled over, and ate my favorite meals with in the past twelve months, which ones do I still think of most?
( Read more... ) |
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| Evening Man by Frederick Seidel |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|10:08 pm] |
The man in bed with me this morning is myself, is me,
The same sort of same-sex marriage New York State allows.
Both men believe in infidelity.
Both men wish they could annul their marriage vows.
This afternoon I will become the Evening Man,
Who does the things most people only dream about.
He swims around his women like a swan, and spreads his fan.
You can't drink that much port and not have gout.
In point of fact, it is arthritis.
His drinking elbow aches, and he admits to this.
To be a candidate for higher office,
You have to practice drastic openness.
You have to practice looking like thin air
When you become the way you do not want to be,
An ancient head of ungrayed dark brown hair
That looks like dyed fur on a wrinkled monkey.
Of course, the real vacation we will take is where we're always headed.
Presidents have Air Force One to fly them there.
I run for office just to get my dark brown hair beheaded.
I wake up on a slab, beheaded, in a White House somewhere.
Evening Man sits signing bills in the Oval Office headless--
Every poem I write starts or ends like this.
His hands have been chopped off. He signs bills with the mess.
The country is in good hands. It ends like this. |
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| Ignorance | Philip Larkin |
[Dec. 18th, 2009|01:30 am] |
Strange to know nothing, never to be sure
Of what is true or right or real,
But forced to qualify or so I feel,
Or Well, it does seem so:
Someone must know.
Strange to be ignorant of the way things work:
Their skill at finding what they need,
Their sense of shape, and punctual spread of seed,
And willingness to change;
Yes, it is strange,
Even to wear such knowledge—for our flesh
Surrounds us with its own decisions—
And yet spend all our life on imprecisions,
That when we start to die
Have no idea why. |
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| Identity Crisis // F.D. Reeve |
[Dec. 16th, 2009|11:03 pm] |
He was urged to prepare for success: "You never can tell,
he was told over and over; "others have made it;
one dare not presume to predict. You never can tell.
Who’s Who in America lists the order of cats
in hunting, fishing, bird-watching, farming,
domestic service--the dictionary order of cats
who have made it. Those not in the book are beyond the pale.
Not to succeed in you chosen profession is unthinkable.
Either you make it or--you’re beyond the pale.
Do you understand?"
"No," he shakes his head.
"Are you ready to forage for freedom?"
"No," he adds,
"I mean, why is a cat always shaking his head?
Because he’s thinking: who am I? I am not
only one-ninth of myself. I always am
all of the selves I have been and will be but am not."
"The normal cat," I tell him, "soon adjusts
to others and to changing circumstances;
he makes his way the way he soon adjusts."
"I can’t," he says, "perhaps because I’m blue,
big-footed, lop-eared, socially awkward, impotent,
and I drink too much, whether because I’m blue
or because I like it, who knows. I want to escape
at five o’clock into an untouchable world
where the top is the bottom and everyone wants to escape
from the middle, everyone, every day. I mean,
I have visions of two green eyes rising
out of the ocean, blinking, knowing what I mean."
"Never mind the picture, repeat after me
the self’s creed. What he tells you you
tells me and I repeats. Now, after me:
I love myself, I wish I would live well.
Your gift of love breaks through my self-defeat.
All prizes are blue. No cat admits defeat.
The next time that he lives he will live well." |
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| Couch for Sale |
[Dec. 16th, 2009|01:30 pm] |
Posting from Craigslist. Hope this doesn't piss anyone off, but a friend of mine in N. Austin is desperately trying to sell his couch before Christmas. Please pass this on to anyone who may be in the market for a very well taken care of used couch.
( Click here to read more. )
THANKS! |
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| Just a ticket stub from 1993. |
[Dec. 15th, 2009|09:01 pm] |
I picked up a used copy of Saturation by Urge Overkill at a record store in Harvard Square, and when I took it home it turned out an old ticket stub from one of their shows was still in the case:
I always like finding things in used books or cd's no matter what they are, and I just thought it was kind of neat that whoever previously owned this album evidently also saw them live when I was 12. It didn't travel far though, The Paradise is fairly close to where I bought the CD. And man, I very rarely see concerts that cost $7 to get into these days. |
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