September 26, 2014
The sea rocks have a green moss.The pine rocks have red berries.I have memories of you.
Speak to me of how you miss me.Tell me the hours go long and slow.
Speak to me of the drag on your heart,The iron drag of the long days.
I know hours empty as a beggar’s tin cup on a rainy day, empty as asoldier’s sleeve with an arm lost.Speak to me…
-Carl Sandburg, Home Thoughts
Carl and today’s mystery letter writer have a point - there’s nothing quite like the feeling of home. And picking up litter’s become a part of my daily routine what with all the cat babysitting I’ve been doing lately. Though I think the letter writer may have been referring to trash. We may never know.

The sea rocks have a green moss.
The pine rocks have red berries.
I have memories of you.

Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.

Speak to me of the drag on your heart,
The iron drag of the long days.

I know hours empty as a beggar’s tin cup on a rainy day, empty as a
soldier’s sleeve with an arm lost.

Speak to me…

-Carl Sandburg, Home Thoughts

Carl and today’s mystery letter writer have a point - there’s nothing quite like the feeling of home. And picking up litter’s become a part of my daily routine what with all the cat babysitting I’ve been doing lately. Though I think the letter writer may have been referring to trash. We may never know.

September 26, 2014
Favorites (Peter Friedman)

"my favorite insults are the sun."

If the sun’s an insult, pepper me with jibes.

almost5q:

fall, #98

Favorites
PETER FRIEDMAN


my favorite insults are the sun
setting and small birds
you’ll never see again

my favorite allergies are ice cold
beaches and lulls
in conversations

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September 24, 2014
Mirror (Sylvia Plath)I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.What ever you see I swallow immediatelyJust as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.I am not cruel, only truthful—-The eye of a little god, four-cornered.Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so longI think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.Faces and darkness separate us over and over.Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,Searching my reaches for what she really is.Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.I am important to her. She comes and goes.Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old womanRises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Mirror (Sylvia Plath)

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful—-
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

2:20pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZCn-sw1RaR6da
  
Filed under: poetry Sylvia Plath 
September 22, 2014
Pieces of a Dead Bird

A little ripped off wing
And then another 
And one more
No blood 
Just missing bodies
Cored out apple
Chair-less floor

Hollowed places
Free from full
Paintings lacking oil
Not art
But something more
Foiled tries
Snake-less coil

A galaxy
Or my insides
Curled up cosmic stuff
No home
So lost in space
Rough living
Becomes enough

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.

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