September 19, 2014
"I am using the candles on my
twenty-first birthday cake
to burn “grow up” into my knees.
I am in the front row at a show,
realizing that if I heard this song two years ago,
I would have thought about you.

Thinking about you takes effort now.
You no longer pour out when I open my mouth.
These days, if I want to bleed you out,
I have to grab a knife."

From Lora Mathis, because obvi.

The Dust On This Poem Could Choke You, Lora Mathis
Reworked this poem for the Fem Lit Mag. FULL POEM HERE (via lora-mathis)

September 19, 2014
Great is the sun, and wide he goes Through empty heaven with repose; And in the blue and glowing days More thick than rain he showers his rays. 
-Robert Louis Stevenson
You got your wish mystery letter-arranger. Today’s the warmest it’s been in weeks - a bright, happy 73 degrees for all the weather weary Chicagoans. I’m writing this from my roof perch, as close to that Mr. Sun as I can get. Basking in the sweet baby rays, walking the fine line between a pretty little tanned nose and cancer.

Great is the sun, and wide he goes 
Through empty heaven with repose; 
And in the blue and glowing days 
More thick than rain he showers his rays. 

-Robert Louis Stevenson

You got your wish mystery letter-arranger. Today’s the warmest it’s been in weeks - a bright, happy 73 degrees for all the weather weary Chicagoans. I’m writing this from my roof perch, as close to that Mr. Sun as I can get. Basking in the sweet baby rays, walking the fine line between a pretty little tanned nose and cancer.

September 18, 2014
Truman Capote would have been 90 on September 30 had he not died in 1984 from liver failure just a month prior to his 60th birthday. In honor of Capote, Chicago radio station WFMT dug up an old recording of him reading aloud the first chapter of the then unfinished novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s. (Holly’s name is Connie in this version). Listening to him read, I was struck by his great sense of theatricality and the ease with which he plays both the shy, unnamed writer character and the bombastic, unapologetic Holly Golightly. It hadn’t occurred to me before how much he was both those characters -  the insecure, struggling Truman Streckfus Persons hiding behind the superficial, wildly social Truman Capote. 
And what a writer. The whole book feels like reading a little poem.
"With all it’s gloom, it was still a place of my own, the first, and my books were there and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be."
Take a listen here. If only to hear lines like this from the man himself. 

Truman Capote would have been 90 on September 30 had he not died in 1984 from liver failure just a month prior to his 60th birthday. In honor of Capote, Chicago radio station WFMT dug up an old recording of him reading aloud the first chapter of the then unfinished novella Breakfast at Tiffany’s. (Holly’s name is Connie in this version). Listening to him read, I was struck by his great sense of theatricality and the ease with which he plays both the shy, unnamed writer character and the bombastic, unapologetic Holly Golightly. It hadn’t occurred to me before how much he was both those characters -  the insecure, struggling Truman Streckfus Persons hiding behind the superficial, wildly social Truman Capote. 

And what a writer. The whole book feels like reading a little poem.

"With all it’s gloom, it was still a place of my own, the first, and my books were there and jars of pencils to sharpen, everything I needed, so I felt, to become the writer I wanted to be."

Take a listen here. If only to hear lines like this from the man himself. 

September 18, 2014
Missed Connections, Riotfest

We met during weezer
talked for a bit
and I lifted you up a few times so you could see the band 
Both our phones
were dead
so we couldn’t exchange numbers, so we got each others names and said we’d find each other on facebook
After that you kissed me and said goodbye 

The names on facebook thing didn’t work out
so if you see this email me
and tell me your name so I know its you

-Craigslist Chicago, missed connections

September 17, 2014
Sugar and Eggs

An older couple walks in front of me
carrying grocery bags full of sugar
eggs 
a large container of soda crackers

I keep pace with them, striding
slower than I’d like

But any faster and I might
rustle the sweetness
crack the beginning of something

September 17, 2014
Artless

is my heart. A stranger
berry there never was,
tartless.
 
Gone sour in the sun,
in the sunroom or moonroof,
roofless.
 
No poetry. Plain. No
fresh, special recipe
to bless.

Read More

September 15, 2014
Purple the Street

Purple the street
Red the light
Up the mood
Over the fight

Purple the gash
Red my heart
Up the creek
Over the start

Purple the wine
Red the drunk
Up my shirt
Over the funk

Purple the end
Red my sorrow
Up and at em
Over tomorrow

September 12, 2014
Japanese Maple (Clive James)

Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:

Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?

Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.

My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:

Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.

-Clive James 

4:25pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZCn-sw1QexxiZ
  
Filed under: poetry Clive James 
September 12, 2014
“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let faith be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.” 
― Maya Angelou
Faith in the hood on a rainy Friday in September. Still summer, but barely. Nobody out messing with letters with the temps so chilly and the rain so generous. 

“Let gratitude be the pillow upon which you kneel to say your nightly prayer. And let faith be the bridge you build to overcome evil and welcome good.” 

― Maya Angelou

Faith in the hood on a rainy Friday in September. Still summer, but barely. Nobody out messing with letters with the temps so chilly and the rain so generous. 

September 11, 2014
Misplaced Bloom

And why cry while counting the five dollar bills into my lap? They never did anything to me. And why working out in the living room? Moon-face and chin lifted, saluting the ceiling with sadness. And why with the cat and why on the mat. Always mundane, these times with the water eyes and the alone feeling and the terrible instinct underneath all the wet. That way down deep it’s all wrong. A song just slightly off tune, a misplaced bloom in December. All gone astray with no sign of right in sight. 

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