Glimmerati, Claudia Keep

shark vs the universe
$LAYYYTER
trying on a metaphor

Love Begins
Not today Justin
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

PR's Tumblrdome

oozey mess
almost home
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Peter Solarz
art blog(derogatory)
No title available
taylor price

Andulka

roma★

No title available
Stranger Things
Xuebing Du
tumblr dot com

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@sunrainstarsmoon
Glimmerati, Claudia Keep
Jeremy Radin, from "Lazar Wolf the Butcher" (poem written during staging of Fiddler on the Roof at Paper Mill Playhouse, shared on his IG page) [ID'd]
florence reekie "lacklustre", 2024 oil on fabric
Brilliance
by Mark Doty
Maggie’s taking care of a man who’s dying; he’s attended to everything, said goodbye to his parents,
paid off his credit card. She says Why don’t you just run it up to the limit?
but he wants everything squared away, no balance owed, though he misses the pets
he’s already found a home for — he can’t be around dogs or cats, too much risk. He says,
I can’t have anything. She says, A bowl of goldfish? He says he doesn’t want to start
with anything and then describes the kind he’d maybe like, how their tails would fan
to a gold flaring. They talk about hot jewel tones, gold lacquer, say maybe
they’ll go pick some out though he can’t go much of anywhere and then abruptly he says I can’t love
anything I can’t finish. He says it like he’s had enough of the whole scintillant world,
though what he means is he’ll never be satisfied and therefore has established this discipline,
a kind of severe rehearsal. That’s where they leave it, him looking out the window,
her knitting as she does because she needs to do something. Later he leaves a message:
Yes to the bowl of goldfish. Meaning: let me go, if I have to, in brilliance. In a story I read,
a Zen master who’d perfected his detachment from the things of the world remembered, at the moment of dying,
a deer he used to feed in the park, and wondered who might care for it, and at that instant was reborn
in the stunned flesh of a fawn. So, Maggie’s friend — Is he going out
Into the last loved object Of his attention? Fanning the veined translucence
Of an opulent tail, Undulant in some uncapturable curve Is he bronze chrysanthemums,
Copper leaf, hurried darting, Doubloons, icon-colored fins Troubling the water?
if you found out that your dad has 120k followers on tiktok what would it be for? what would your dad's tiktok niche be
Some wounds don’t ever heal. But I like your woundedness, your mouth. I like thinking this will all come true, if we’re brave and good enough. The girl won’t be eaten by the witch. The boy will find the way back home through the woods by the small coins of bread on the path, by the moon. Really, I never know where it begins. The buttery longing turned to a sweetness too sweet to bear. Almost too sweet.
Cecilia Woloch, from Carpathia; “Really, I Couldn’t Say When My Kisses Got Closer To Your Mouth”
Morning poem by Robin Becker
a normal human emotion ..... whatever next !
i don't think any piece of media is above criticism but what is one thing you think is just perfect in every way? like from the themes, the characters, the storytelling, the execution to the craft of the medium itself? something that just feels so complete in what it wants to be
Everything is embarrassing if you live your life through the eyes of others btw
Value Form by Brendan Joyce
The Great Blue Heron of Dunbar Road
by Ada Limón
That we might walk out into the woods together, and afterwards make toast in our sock feet, still damp from the fern’s wet grasp, the spiky needles stuck to our legs, that’s all I wanted, the dog in the mix, jam sometimes, but not always. But somehow, I’ve stopped praising you. How the valley when you first see it — the small roads back to your youth — is so painfully pretty at first, then, after a month of black coffee, it’s just another place your bullish brain exists, bothered by itself and how hurtful human life can be. Isn’t that how it is? You wake up some days full of crow and shine, and then someone has put engine coolant in the medicine on another continent and not even crying helps cure the idea of purposeful poison. What kind of woman am I? What kind of man? I’m thinking of the way my stepdad got sober, how he never told us, just stopped drinking and sat for a long time in the low folding chair on the Bermuda grass reading and sometimes soaking up the sun like he was the story’s only subject. When he drove me to school, we decided it would be a good day, if we saw the blue heron in the algae-covered pond next to the road, so that if we didn’t see it, I’d be upset. Then, he began to lie. To tell me he’d seen it when he hadn’t, or to suppose that it had just taken off when we rounded the corner in the gray car that somehow still ran, and I would lie, too, for him. I’d say I saw it. Heard the whoosh of wings over us. That’s the real truth. What we told each other to help us through the day: the great blue heron was there, even when the pond dried up, or froze over; it was there because it had to be. Just now, I felt like I wanted to be alone for a long time, in a folding chair on the lawn with all my private agonies, but then I saw you and the way you’re hunching over your work like a puzzle, and I think even if I fail at everything, I still want to point out the heron like I was taught, still want to slow the car down to see the thing that makes it all better, the invisible gift, what we see when we stare long enough into nothing.