đşApril 21st 753BCE - 476CEđş
hello vonnie
will byers stan first human second
almost home
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸

pixel skylines

oozey mess
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
noise dept.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
occasionally subtle

JVL
art blog(derogatory)
KIROKAZE

Kiana Khansmith

Kaledo Art
Peter Solarz
Keni

No title available
styofa doing anything
seen from South Korea

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seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Jordan

seen from Germany
seen from Germany
seen from Iraq
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Norway
seen from Hong Kong SAR China

seen from Jordan

seen from United States
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seen from United States
@mybittenpath
đşApril 21st 753BCE - 476CEđş
Shoutout to all the grapes in the bottoms of countless fridges and creatives terrified of never reaching their full potential
My name isn't baby and no you can't talk to me for a minute.
Positive vibes for 2018 đą There's much to be done.
Read my lips when I say olive juice. I love you most when you're not listening so closely đ¸
Popcorn
Lightly salted fireworks Steam peels husks back and onto themselves to expose the soft, crisp, white flesh.
Beg for butter. Demand to be savored. Let the heat coax out your softer self. Explode
into fluff and anchor yourself to the nub of your kernel your center and starting point.
Get trapped between his teeth. Make him thirst for bitter IPAs. Along his gums, leave thin bits of yourself that his tongue will grow tired of searching for.
Tap Water
Granola bars Crisp and sweet turned to paste in my mouth and pressure washed down with tap water.
Jerk chicken roti Rice and beans and shaved cabbage and pickles not quite puckery and softer than I'd eat alone. Fork speared and flopped on top of the aforementioned smeared with avocado and jerk sauce shoveled into my full mouth. cheeked so my one dimple disappears and I can run iced tap water over my tongue Quelling what little heat my meal is generating.
Still chewing and reading, I always wait until late for lunch. I do well to avoid the rush and stagger my meals so that dinner somehow feels optional.
I wait until 10pm and tell myself it's too late at night to cook. I hate my kitchen. It's got NY tenants with antennas stealing away with crumbs, cat food residue, and my appetite.
My excitement to chop and chef it up swapped out for revulsion and defeat why are they in the sink? I don't use cups, I fill my aluminum bottle with tap water. bamboo top sealed tight and tossed into my purse. So at the very least I'll never go thirsty.
Sheared
Don't call me sweet. I'm not a lamb koftas stewed with figs Syrup tear drops Fleshy and soft with crisp seeds Outer fibers clinging to each other In solidarity or non-sentient hive Symmetrical and harboring sugar water -logged wool. I shrunk that sweater 3 sizes when I dried it and tried to stretch it out. Clumsy and pruning hands Realizing just how rough wool is and forgetting the once welcoming texture As the strands try to etch new wrinkles into my palms leaving them pinkish and
itching
to get out of this stage of my life. Over the notion of worrying about my finances. Under the impression that this discomfort is temporary Through with being responsible for my own unhappiness, but not really.
Rise
Seasoned by cast iron and shea softened, her hands crack; drawing gas bubbles between her knuckles, she creates space.
Feigning a mind cluttered, she erects buffers with hmms and yes honeys as you interrupt her sourdough meditation.
She rose this morning leavening and slapping and folding onto the floured counter. She waved to greet a sun seeking her radiance.
The dough, fermenting and tacky, reminisce with her fingers as she works around the bowl stretching it to fold over itself, teasing out memories every ninety degrees.
She stows the bowl away to rest and slices the boule whose baked scent guided you into her kitchen this morning.
You accept her offer of butter smoothed along the many craters in her bread, pushed wide by gas bubbles she drew with her patient hands, she created this space.
Destination Wedding
We were eating cake by the ocean. Sea salt caramel icing stallactenticing off of the edge of this chocolate cake The extra crunch was a light dusting of sand. Earthy aint it? Tongue slicking and silty buttercream film smeared across our teeth. Grains individually ringing in discomfort tuning for the natural frequency of my teeth to turn bone to sand or shatter them like glass only to be weathered into sand then struck by summer lightning to be turned to glass and placed in your bedroom as a statement piece key bowl, ash tray, or ring holder.
Hibiscus Before the sun sets coral and orange, peel away your bitterness born from insecurity. Shake your rose hips to the songs you're too shy to sing and hum them to the ardent bees trafficking your pollen name and unpolished trade Let your passion fruit and pluck it with trembling hands. Grant yourself permission to grow.
Blossom In Bronze
A tiny man inscribed on the good luck charm begins to get up from his lotus pad and put on his shoes. *
â *from Molly Peacockâs Good Fortune
Made of soft bronze and too small to clink clink with each step, he carries a knapsack heavy with the hopes of the owner of the braceleted wrist. Whistling a charming cadence, he slips away unnoticed.
Fireworks
âYou hate the sound of my mouth?â Milo said through chewed up burger. He noisily inhaled in the way people do when their mouths are full and theyâve fully submitted to gluttony.Â
Laide watched him lean back in the wooden kitchen chair to rest one of his long legs on the only other chair in their apartment.
Hands Worn
I lost the Molskine I stole Skin stained by ink, carries doodles and poemsâ seeds.
Dried out and forgotten by way of a morning shower My washcloth exfoliates the memory away with green tea suds.
The crease-lettes along the inside of my forearm embrace the potential but leach loftiness as my tendons wriggle and fingers click tap to the tune of financial security.
A peculiar cadence One that twangs with doubt in my office competence Hesitation between notes so I 1 tri-p-le it 3 4 to get through some measures.
Itâs unclear if Iâm stuttering, improvising, or not heeding the conductor.
Baton purposefully swinging, maybe seconds away from being tossed at my head.
Maybe Iâm in time and should keep my head down and stay focused. Maybe itâs good? Perhaps foreshadowing greatness.
Or not at all what I should be doing.
Trouble with Brussels
I look at the radish.
The radish looks at me.
I adjust the empty tote bag on my shoulder. The soil clinging to the root falls in a way that says, âYou donât know what to do with this.â Â I try not to break eye contact, but it doesnât have eyes so Iâm simply standing in the Union Square farmerâs market, glaring at a radish and Iâm probably in someoneâs way.Â
Table for 1
Brown butter and sage.
Gurgling, sighing away water content leaf edges curling out of melted butter and crisping.
Iâd torn them up for the strength I suppose; as strong as fresh sage is wont to be when itâs praised for subtlety.
In a restaurant, these browning milk solids may have coated ravioli or encrusted the ridges of gnocchi but here, fresh linguine was $2.76.
My nonstick pans have oxidized bottoms, build up from spilt oil, and wonky handles that make pouring sauces fire hazards.
Trying to peak through the pale yellow foam, I swirl the small sturdy pot - the one I trust the most. I want to say that I saw my future
like people do with tea leaves or that I could hear future apprentice me yelling âYes Chef!â amid metal clatter or that this moment changed me forever.
It did not. Tonight I had dinner and was full.
Duck Love
I love duck. Duck pappardelle, duck bacon, duck burgers, duck burgers with duck bacon, pepper jack, habanero mayo, pickled jalapeno, red onion, spinach, and tomato on brioche- one of the most ubiquitous and agreeable soft breads out there- is worth writing about. Â