Defiant Definer

(Source: poab, via sadburro)

Seeing the Moon on a Hot Summer Day by Helen Frankenthaler

Seeing the Moon on a Hot Summer Day by Helen Frankenthaler

from “The Pillow Book” by Sei Shōnagon

The thing about someone’s face that’s particularly fine always makes you think, “Ah, how delightful! How special!” no matter how many times you see it. Pictures, on the other hand, cease to attract the eye if you see them a number of times. The painting on a screen that stands close by, for example, may be absolutely marvelous, but you never pay it any attention. But people’s appearance really is endlessly attractive. How your eye is drawn to the one good point in a face whose “furnishing” is otherwise unattractive! It’s a great pity to find yourself feeling much the same way about some feature that’s ugly. 

from “Disassociation and Authenticity” by Vereen M. Bell, Robert Lowell: Nihilist as Hero

from “Disassociation and Authenticity” by Vereen M. Bell, Robert Lowell: Nihilist as Hero

Been getting letters then they stopped.
She come in pieces she come in.
Styles.
Cod-lies.
She got burned.
For miles and miles and miles.

show me just one thing
make it real
you can send me anywhere

sing to me

citieslight

citieslight

The present moment is significant, not as the bridge between past and future, but by reason of its contents, contents which can fill our emptiness and become ours, if we are capable of receiving them.

- Markings by Dag Hammarskjöld

Although it has teeth, the animal hardly ever uses them for eating.
When I first met her, she was reading a story about a girl who was duped into sealing her heart into a plastic bag and then giving it to a cruel person who let it wither. 
I keep having dreams where my flesh is being gnawed by some seen or unseen force. This morning it was the wind itself, with numb teeth that slowly ground past skin and into red. 
Odd parts: holding an empty bottle and watching some desperate acts for veneration while feeling utmost rage at how easy it is for some people to reach outside of themselves, knowing that she isn’t sleeping in her car anymore is the best comfort i can get right now, knowing that i have a comfort about her makes me sick, flashes of physical violence for parts of a human body that i remember holding a guitar and wearing an awful baseball cap, keeping my nails cut shorter than ever.
The spots and markings are a mystery but some believe they are a form of identification. Others believe it is a form of protection as the animal likes to warm itself close to the surface of the water, a shield from destructive light.
Would I be better not knowing? No. Clearly not.
Would I be better not knowing that this is the second time someone has taken part of her without permission, with derision and ease? Maybe.
One female was caught once and observed to be pregnant with nearly 300 pups, each twelve to twenty-four inches in size.
I let the invasive thoughts come and I let them ruin parts of my day. It is not just her story, it is the image of her heart clinging to the sheen of plastic wrap among the collective on the wall and shelves: all pinned individually into a mass.
I am not a violent person. Even when physical collisions would occur in my daily life, I was always one to extend an arm to help the other up or to look at who else would reach down toward the floor.
When my friend told me of her news, I stood in a room full of pigs and a ceiling covered in globes. It took me two minutes to drink six dollars worth of bubbling liquid and it didn’t do any good. My legs twitched all night, my voice caught when telling stories about visiting canals and buildings that all reached toward a  point, how all the spires even reminded me of that friend whose narratives would always be echoes of a life spent in a tower, being told one thing and experiencing nothing but the world withholding itself through a small and open portal that a body can not fit through. I worry about the rest of her though because if you read anything, you know that windows have limitations but they are also obvious openings which can omit a true reality and allow the viewer to escape into a fantasy that is only seen and never experienced.
He watched her and laughed and took images and took her and took took took took. I of course was not there, I may have been looking up toward a spiraled church or accidentally attending the funeral of a stranger. I am not sure. She has disappeared for now and none of us know how best to approach the situation except by repeatedly opening the windows, allowing this warm air to cool down the interiors we reside in and waiting for the winter we’ve been promised.
When larger, inedible creatures get stuck in the filtration system: the animal will produce a cough to release them back into the water.
I am making mistakes lately and I can hardly blame anyone but myself, but I know that part of myself is not fully there right now. I am split between living and anxiety. One is part of the other, but it seems that one is in the shadows right now yet I can’t define which is which. 
Images change out of the window, seasons transform themselves into blooms and blusters and bilious skies that each hold their own form of a promise. Of course, I don’t know what to do: each time I make a mistake as my mind wanders, each time I omit a definitive answer to someone who cares, each time I clench my first harder and harder when someone yells from a passing car about the length of my skirt or leg, each time I wake up from a dream that has nothing to do with this but besets me with a day of worry. I need to work. I have two major projects to complete. I have started writing a series of poems that are coming together all on their own, stitching themselves up with me only dabbing away the leaks. I need to research a drive from New York City to North Carolina to Atlanta and then back home so that one of my best friends and I can have places to eat that will make up for eight months apart (full of smoke and sauce, lacking in grains and alcohol). I need to keep reading. I need to keep writing. I need to keep working to make more money to save up more money for when I finally decide to climb out of a window. I need to keep going.
The first night I remember dreaming of her had something to do with flowers being underfoot then growing back into the ground. 
There is no known end or beginning to this animal, we only have hypothesis in the works. There is no known end or beginning to this story, I only have what she has told me and what I have read. There is no way of knowing how to end this thought aside from an admission of anxiety, to let someone know I was worried without it weighing down the air with audible parts. 

Although it has teeth, the animal hardly ever uses them for eating.

When I first met her, she was reading a story about a girl who was duped into sealing her heart into a plastic bag and then giving it to a cruel person who let it wither. 

I keep having dreams where my flesh is being gnawed by some seen or unseen force. This morning it was the wind itself, with numb teeth that slowly ground past skin and into red. 

Odd parts: holding an empty bottle and watching some desperate acts for veneration while feeling utmost rage at how easy it is for some people to reach outside of themselves, knowing that she isn’t sleeping in her car anymore is the best comfort i can get right now, knowing that i have a comfort about her makes me sick, flashes of physical violence for parts of a human body that i remember holding a guitar and wearing an awful baseball cap, keeping my nails cut shorter than ever.

The spots and markings are a mystery but some believe they are a form of identification. Others believe it is a form of protection as the animal likes to warm itself close to the surface of the water, a shield from destructive light.

Would I be better not knowing? No. Clearly not.

Would I be better not knowing that this is the second time someone has taken part of her without permission, with derision and ease? Maybe.

One female was caught once and observed to be pregnant with nearly 300 pups, each twelve to twenty-four inches in size.

I let the invasive thoughts come and I let them ruin parts of my day. It is not just her story, it is the image of her heart clinging to the sheen of plastic wrap among the collective on the wall and shelves: all pinned individually into a mass.

I am not a violent person. Even when physical collisions would occur in my daily life, I was always one to extend an arm to help the other up or to look at who else would reach down toward the floor.

When my friend told me of her news, I stood in a room full of pigs and a ceiling covered in globes. It took me two minutes to drink six dollars worth of bubbling liquid and it didn’t do any good. My legs twitched all night, my voice caught when telling stories about visiting canals and buildings that all reached toward a  point, how all the spires even reminded me of that friend whose narratives would always be echoes of a life spent in a tower, being told one thing and experiencing nothing but the world withholding itself through a small and open portal that a body can not fit through. I worry about the rest of her though because if you read anything, you know that windows have limitations but they are also obvious openings which can omit a true reality and allow the viewer to escape into a fantasy that is only seen and never experienced.

He watched her and laughed and took images and took her and took took took took. I of course was not there, I may have been looking up toward a spiraled church or accidentally attending the funeral of a stranger. I am not sure. She has disappeared for now and none of us know how best to approach the situation except by repeatedly opening the windows, allowing this warm air to cool down the interiors we reside in and waiting for the winter we’ve been promised.

When larger, inedible creatures get stuck in the filtration system: the animal will produce a cough to release them back into the water.

I am making mistakes lately and I can hardly blame anyone but myself, but I know that part of myself is not fully there right now. I am split between living and anxiety. One is part of the other, but it seems that one is in the shadows right now yet I can’t define which is which. 

Images change out of the window, seasons transform themselves into blooms and blusters and bilious skies that each hold their own form of a promise. Of course, I don’t know what to do: each time I make a mistake as my mind wanders, each time I omit a definitive answer to someone who cares, each time I clench my first harder and harder when someone yells from a passing car about the length of my skirt or leg, each time I wake up from a dream that has nothing to do with this but besets me with a day of worry. I need to work. I have two major projects to complete. I have started writing a series of poems that are coming together all on their own, stitching themselves up with me only dabbing away the leaks. I need to research a drive from New York City to North Carolina to Atlanta and then back home so that one of my best friends and I can have places to eat that will make up for eight months apart (full of smoke and sauce, lacking in grains and alcohol). I need to keep reading. I need to keep writing. I need to keep working to make more money to save up more money for when I finally decide to climb out of a window. I need to keep going.

The first night I remember dreaming of her had something to do with flowers being underfoot then growing back into the ground. 

There is no known end or beginning to this animal, we only have hypothesis in the works. There is no known end or beginning to this story, I only have what she has told me and what I have read. There is no way of knowing how to end this thought aside from an admission of anxiety, to let someone know I was worried without it weighing down the air with audible parts. 

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