untitled on Flickr.
untitled on Flickr.
untitled on Flickr.
untitled on Flickr.
The great gatsby!! on Flickr.
poetry should smack you in the face and break your heart. that’s how you know it’s working.
by Cindy Emch
Meet me at the second hand record store at three
we need some new tapes
some gas
maybe
a map.
sweet baby– oh my baby
how this moving keeps us moving
miles of pavement of asphalt of
american history
of our history
miles miles and miles of fucking and fighting and loving
from Nashville to Memphis to the great
long Panhandle of North Texas and we never stop moving
we switch role to role
driver navigator rivers lakes
water over and through
we
beat the heat
the words
the blister lust of our love
and this need
to wander and explore and find
and love and love and love
the road is wearing wrinkles into your laugh
the mix tape is stretching out
as we drive past the roadkill of our friendship
moving into primal
in sweatsoaked clothes that freeze and chill and sharpen
the farther north we drive
I will race the buffalos in South Dakota
you will shield me from snow in Seattle
before we run down the California coast
redwoods and confederate flags blowing past our dust
And we never really get lost
And we never really get home
this roadtrip doesn’t end
not in a mad flourish with guns and car chases and cliffs
not in a safe collapse on a familiar bed
we are too full of our own futures
Meet me at that second hand record store at three
we need some new tapes
some gas
and maybe
a map.
For Dinah’s Christina Rossetti
There is a difference between kneeling and bowing
that has to do with endurance
You talk to God & swim in shadows
you say I believe
while catching snowflakes on your tongue
You recreate the watery communion for the others
My friend will quench the loneliness of
your mis-representation though she may seem an unlikely savior,
you are not the first stray she’s taken in
You could both slip quietly into the fold,
cover your slender shoulders and smile
You could both pretend that faith was more
dumbluck than educated guess
Yet you walk swiftly through
late November, with London’s ghosts
whispering in your ear, you imagine the snow falling,
all the water drops for your soul and yours alone
You will inherit the earth.
good luck with that
I love women who talk when no one is listening
(originally published by Lodestar Quarterly here: http://lodestarquarterly.com/work/247/)
DONATE HERE TO HELP KEEP FRAN ALIVE!!!!
(http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/fran-s-hella-pretty-lyme-fighting-army/x/557171)
poet and women’s health activist Fran Varian is fighting for her life. please donate and help her stay alive. new perks for donating are being added daily, and now include custom artwork, massages, and a song written just for you by me. :) please signal boost the HELL out of this. (http://www.indiegogo.com/projects/fran-s-hella-pretty-lyme-fighting-army)
to inspire you. to make you understand. here. is a poem from her. (originally published by Lodestar Quarterly here: http://lodestarquarterly.com/work/246/)
if you break
do it quietly so that no one hears you
no one comes running
be a small tear in a glass vase
cunningly invisible
until it implodes from the weight
of the holding of water and beautiful things
christ, if you break that way
imagine what they’ll say about you
regret the hours passed when you stood
empty and unnoticed
do not announce
do not indicate. She
walks in beauty
a weeping Madonna
and her sorrowful story line lifts her
like a beacon above
the choir of whores she keeps
confidence with
she’s got tunnel vision for the business &
a $75/hour ass to boot
she’s so sad you can’t help
but get hard
every time she walks by
& it’s not the sadness that’s got your hand
down your pants
it’s the way she holds it be-
cause it’s precious and she might
slip that pouting frown mouth over you
and suck the evil out
of your heart
leave you spent and empty and free of your will
which has always been miserably mediocre baby
it’s the way she holds herself
up around the hairline fracture down the center
the way muscle and tendon have adhered
to the split stupidly obedient science
she is a martyred saint voodoo priestess miracle
with her faith bunched around her ankles
picture perfect
mainlines God and the Devil on alternate days
Mom Dad the custody battle
anything to hold
on cause she
knows she’s gonna break &
she’ll be damned it you get her to howl
everyone I love has this
hard dirty cough like they could
push up the ugly and spit it back where
it came from
but they are victims of gravity
and swallow back into them
the notion the poison and poor
folks are made for one another
I rock myself to sleep for this
and I rack my brain for the answers
to days that unravel like symptoms
in a Public Health clinic
begging for diagnosis
and no money for the medicine
everyone I love breaks down like a car
on the freeway going 70
break down that fast ain’t pretty,
No
the best mind of my generation
is not the best heart
and the hearts of my best loves
watch their cunts poison pumped
by the
unworthy
over & over & over again
she’s got you all jacked up on
possibility and redemption fucking fantasies
suddenly you know, you’d
kill to be the one
sucking the sweetness
making her 30 pieces of silver noose
and 2 air kisses for the trip
you say
fuck-doll
bim-bo
sing-song
like you’re waiting to hear
thank you
you’ve got your hands
down
your pants
precious
fluid pumped continuously through
the veins of the unworthy in-
to the mouth of the miracle worker
you’d turn on a
dime to break her ask
her for change when you’re done
All of my rosy people with
their candy cancer sticks and charming
refusal to drop dead
quietly
they march on
obedient as science
but far less ordered
the proletariat as phlegm in
the lungs of the master plan
I no longer believe in our salvation
welcome, true dawn of the revolution:
so sad you get hard every time
sacred
lullaby of the miracle worker her
heavenly chorus of
“cum on my face”
before this over you will
forever understand that
your redemption was purchased for
$75 and the sweetest ass this side of the
tracks
All of my people have been instructed
to break quietly a
small tear in a glass vase
cunningly invisible until they implode
from the weight of the holding
I believe in one holy and apostolic church
Now Go Rebuild TheWorld
—Ernest Hemingway (via ckgarden) (via manicstreetpreach)
(Source: larmoyante, via norma-bara)
Commuting forces my brain to eat itself. The sad cowboy songs I tend to listen to do not help. Three hours of sad nostalgia, regrets, frustrations, they do not help me win at life. So today I tried Internet radio and WWOZ from New Orleans, one of my favorite jazz stations ever. And now I’m just full of sad and regret and missing New Orleans. Sigh.
Future Goals: Buying a bar and having Rowlf play every night from 9pm - Midnight.
(via laughterkey)
“Less Teeth More Tits” - Lunachicks. My favorite song from them.
“You put the ‘turd’ into Saturday”
Sleepy selfie time on Flickr.