Defiant Definer

dcycledesign:

Don Caballero - You Drink A Lot Of Coffee For A Teenager

Live In Seattle 1999

(Source: ddwvision)

Yesterday I spat in someone’s face. It was a first and seems significant to record.

deadtoothradio:

Tom Waits - Burma Shave

(Source: youtube.com)

From “The Conversations” by Les Murray

The Beginning is a steady white sound.


Remembering a friend say, “Whatever ends up happening, she has a reminder of misery that will last at least eighteen years.” 

A week or two of rain, waiting to hear about two friends somewhere between a known and fully unknowable life, losing three years of files briefly possibly maybe longer, then finally some good days aside from the relief of knowing “he is alive” and “I’ll get to see her again.”

Saturday, I drove with Nicole down a familiar highway where we spoke about everything aside from the anxieties we had about the upcoming handful of hours. I know I will not see that friend for months again but there was a relief after leaving the flat, wide house surrounded by flooded prairie. It isn’t a certainty but a confidence, an odd calm in meeting protective pillars and posts that reach only to one floor but sometimes that’s all you need living next to the river already. No use in running or climbing, just match the current. 

Then back for oysters from Puget Sound, comparing relics from childhood neighborhoods, foam, rope, four letter words, flex, marks, and then one more bruise on top of a bruise after a chain gets snagged and sends me into the curb knee first. 

Generally, still waiting just a touch less anxious.

Remembering a friend say, “Whatever ends up happening, she has a reminder of misery that will last at least eighteen years.”

A week or two of rain, waiting to hear about two friends somewhere between a known and fully unknowable life, losing three years of files briefly possibly maybe longer, then finally some good days aside from the relief of knowing “he is alive” and “I’ll get to see her again.”

Saturday, I drove with Nicole down a familiar highway where we spoke about everything aside from the anxieties we had about the upcoming handful of hours. I know I will not see that friend for months again but there was a relief after leaving the flat, wide house surrounded by flooded prairie. It isn’t a certainty but a confidence, an odd calm in meeting protective pillars and posts that reach only to one floor but sometimes that’s all you need living next to the river already. No use in running or climbing, just match the current.

Then back for oysters from Puget Sound, comparing relics from childhood neighborhoods, foam, rope, four letter words, flex, marks, and then one more bruise on top of a bruise after a chain gets snagged and sends me into the curb knee first.

Generally, still waiting just a touch less anxious.

Rachel Bee Porter, “The Joy of Cooking”

Rachel Bee Porter, “The Joy of Cooking”

O’Hara loved to debate, as he believed that poems grew out of the kind of exchange that generated “discord … disagreement and provocation.” So he argued constantly with Ashbery. After college, however, Ashbery, a poet of an increasingly other order, did not experience the continual challenge of O’Hara’s conversation as a stimulus. In a 1950 letter he vents his frustration with O’Hara’s need to contradict every damned thing he says. O’Hara replies with a string of poems addressed to his irritated friend that are “marked by ambivalence, tenderness, confusion, and affection.” In one, a poem entitled “To John Ashbery,” he writes mournfully: “I can’t believe there’s not/another world where we will sit/and read new poems to each other/ high on a mountain in the wind.” 
from “The Soul Grown Refined” by Vivian Gornick

O’Hara loved to debate, as he believed that poems grew out of the kind of exchange that generated “discord … disagreement and provocation.” So he argued constantly with Ashbery. After college, however, Ashbery, a poet of an increasingly other order, did not experience the continual challenge of O’Hara’s conversation as a stimulus. In a 1950 letter he vents his frustration with O’Hara’s need to contradict every damned thing he says. O’Hara replies with a string of poems addressed to his irritated friend that are “marked by ambivalence, tenderness, confusion, and affection.” In one, a poem entitled “To John Ashbery,” he writes mournfully: “I can’t believe there’s not/another world where we will sit/and read new poems to each other/ high on a mountain in the wind.” 

from “The Soul Grown Refined” by Vivian Gornick

Oh pretty, pretty, I’m aflame.

books about UFOs by Hüsker Dü

where can I sing this at a karoake bar after imbibing enough to sing in front of strangers? someone make this possible. 

(Source: Spotify)

from “On the Tomato: Brief Vaudevillian Hypotheses Apropos of this Androgynous Fruit” by Guillermo Saavedra

Every tomato, a world:
with room for grace and disarray,
traces of memory and desire.


welcomeghosts asked:
Visit whenever! I'll be moving at the very end of May :D

THIS IS THE BEST

Cathedra by Barnett Newman

Cathedra by Barnett Newman

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