I click so much
My shoulder hurts
My hands begin to ache
I give them little baths
in hot water
I try to stop
I try talking to my right hand
asking it to ease back a little
I try staring at the mouse
Willing it up and down
without my finger
These don’t work either
I do it mostly for the sound
A round little heartbeat
mechanically echoing the food of my insides
A sterile plate
on which I arrange my pain
shoulder and otherwise
I click so much
Is it right to feed cats cardboard crap?
and box lock them, pet their heads
Or large and clawful, raking human eyes
swallowing pupils into their cat stomachs
Giving new vision
Here’s the inside of a cat
Here’s everything you don’t see
You powerful human idiots
You think I dream in fishbowls
You think I don’t see how you gobble up everything
Singing pop tunes all the while
to real cat needs
We came from Egypt you fucking morons
We are gods
You collar and cage us
But someday you’ll pay
When the feline vengeance rains upon you
When your stupid eyes flutter open
Two futile flapping birds
careening towards a finite fate
he is a foot soldier. he is not a chicken.
Harmony Korine’s forward he wrote for Werner Herzog: A Guide for the Perplexed
The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.
Seasons may change sign, but it’s now September and still hot as blazes. No complaints here - I love the stifling blessed Chicago heat. Just before I took this, a man ran up to it and dug his hands into the plants below, pulling out a “3” and a “1.” Restoring them to their rightful places among the rest before jaunting off on a jog around the square.
to put on face
or take it off
Where’s the book anyway
I remember books being dust-filled
and flower stocked
More like paper and less like crap
But books don’t look
like lives online
And the pictures don’t move
And there are no pictures
Just words without links
And the memory of think
This is a poem. Greatness from Lora Mathis.
this is a poem. on Flickr.
hey y’all thinkin bout making prints of this
it’s a photo i took in march 2013 that’s been circulating around uncredited since
anyone want one?
I fell not once
before I felt the sting.
A twisted king of pain
heavy handed with the crown.
lip sullen and toddler mad
What bad girl am I?
why me upon the ground
But roundly the earth shook
and laughed and didn’t care.
in between the wound licking.
Like chosen last
The rotten parts spread fast.
But so too does my saltiness
Brining me outside and in.
Until, like a kettle of freshly killed fish,
I learn a new ocean to swim.
The Logan secret letter spot. Where the Loganites write messages to each other, their kids, god, nobody at all. I’ve never actually seen anyone assembling a message until today, when a shorter man with silver hair was out there with a bag of plastic letters.
"I didn’t realize people replace the letters on this thing," I said.
"Well, someone has to or I wouldn’t be able to wish my nephew a happy birthday," the man said as he tucked an upside down "u" next to the right arm of a "w."
"Kolton," I said. "Now there’s a name you don’t see often."
"I know," he said. "My hippie dippy sister. When I first found out about the name, I thought, ‘Ugg, don’t name him that, he’ll sound like a porn star.’"
He didn’t elaborate on whether he still considered the name to be of the porn star varietal.
I dig the grey man’s style. A “3” and a “7” make up the “G” in “Good.” Two plus four equals the word six in one equation, but five plus five equals the number 10. The extra letters form little multi-colored mounds and Kolton - the six-year-old adult entertainment wannabe - is flanked above and below by mysterious groupings of sideways-splayed letters. A proper happy birthday. One adult Kolton will no doubt look fondly back upon from the cushy comfort of his primo porn king lifestyle.
In starting a new blog, one naturally leaves behind something. For weeks, I’ve struggled with understanding what this one will be about. The tone, voice, subject matter all seemed to elude me. I was eluding myself. Then this morning, over a poached egg, I picked up a collection of diaries by Anne Morrow Lindbergh (aviator, writer, wife of Charles) and read this:
People don’t want to be understood – I mean not completely. It’s too destructive. Then they haven’t anything left. They don’t want complete sympathy or complete understanding. They want to be treated carelessly and taken for granted lots of times.
Anne would have just been in college writing this, coming off adolescence, away from home for the first time. Just a short period alone with her thoughts brought this perspective of people – that perhaps the deep connections we search for aren’t, in the end, what fulfill us most. But rather the time spent apart, the longing, the looking inward. Adolescence, Anne says, gives us “a foretaste of the inevitable tragedies of life along with one’s early confused attempts to understand or meet them.” It also gives us our first crack at self-examination. To begin the drift away from parents, siblings, friends until – alone in the little room of our souls – we first discover ourselves.