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@leeannitha
My latest Guardian Books Cartoon.
Honey wake up, another TP zelink just dropped
Virginia Woolf, "A Writer's Diary"
Ā Olive Trees with Yellow Sky and Sun by Vincent Van Gogh
The Death of Sappho (1876) by Gustave Moreau
āYou learn to cope with whatever you have to cope with. I spent my childhood in New York, riding on subways and buses. And you know what you learn if youāre a New Yorker? The world doesnāt owe you a damn thing.ā
Lauren Bacall [1946]Ā Ā
Virginia Woolf, "A Writer's Diary"
āThe medium of poetry is a human body: the column of air inside the chest, shaped into signifying sounds in the larynx and the mouth. In this sense, poetry is just as physical or bodily an art as dancing.ā
ā Robert Pinsky
āTiny Binary Aftermath Figureā*
When asked if you had a vagina or a cock,
you did the only appropriate thing
and set the world on fire.
You sifted their question from sound into soot,
to fume back into their mouths
and strain the gaps between their teeth.
Your mother choked on your female name amid
swirls of smoke, and your fatherās shed
spit out the other with the splinters before it shambled inā
sssssssss----pah!
Every fiery vertical starved themselves and dipped.
Every horizontal blackened and stitched
themselves away beyond remorse.
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā
The flames asked for blessings between mouthfuls.
The birds humbled themselves into stones.
The fire hollowing out its own womb in mother Earth.
Even before birth you were irreverent, omnipresent.
In later years youād wait on doorsteps as a āthem,ā
as an unclarified subject able to command any sentence.
And one day, youāll arrive in this world head-first.
Youāll tell us your name in the language of flame.
In the hunger of a world still burning.
*Robin Coste Lewis, Voyage of the Sable Venus
by Lee Pelletier
š¦šØšš§
If sorrow is a suit, its weight is incalculable. One day heās gone and it sews itself inside you. Mourning drapes your skin in its invisible fabric. Every memory furs atop a price memory. Your limbs, your teatures, your senses extend themselves to accommodate the sadness. One morning you wake and try to wear this new suit in the bathroom or the bedroom, in the shower or at the front door, down the stairs of the stoop to the walkway hovering before you, and you finally realize you are carrying another body, his body, your former body, your bodies together, in and on you, and this slows you, and stills you, weighs more than two bodies or many bodies inside your body, it's like the bodies are breeding bodies, metastasizing bodies, so much bone and vein and hair, and you touch the force, the heat of the seething arteries, feel the sheer new tonnage moving and pressing in on you, grief's scent like the first breath in a foreign country, and you fear your entry but you're already in. You think of flight but woe offers no exit. You sing, you weep, you dance but there's no way out. Except one. Through your own skin. This one, heavy with sweat, matted, half-shed and broken by a delta of scars, smelling of something familiar, indiscernible and animal, slick and smoldering like volcanic rock, as white as ash, and death itself: take it. You take it. You take it off.
- šš¼šµš» šš²š²š»š², Punks: New & Selected Poems, 2021
My Angel of Desolation
after John Keene
is a man brittle-haired and hot-ugly
slipping in a square of wintermintĀ
and drags a stiff leg to sit beside me
on the stone memorial at Rockwell Park.
He says, ālook what youāve done,ā as calmly
as āthe sunās come outā but there is aĀ
Yorkshire Terrier red-clotted and simpering,
teeth-hooked to his left ankle.
I canāt decide if it is still alive or not. I ask,
āWhy did you bring that thing here?ā just as
Ā he says, āItās yours.ā I decide not to argue
this time.Ā
Iām sure the angel has a name but Iāve neverĀ
asked it. The dogās name is Jam. They visit
me sometimes when I most want to be alone.