#david bottoms

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Nothing, not a cracker, not a crumb. Still a vague intimation shadows the memory of this place, and others, that somewhere down the pike these landscapes are waiting again, or are, perhaps, the only things we take with us— our psychic terrain— as though through memory we create our own afterlives— which can’t be the entire breadth of it all, … but in some way a homeland, a landscape out of which we might ramble into the afterlives, yes, the memories, of one another…

[David Bottoms]

[metamorphesque]

Slow Nights on the Bass Boat, David Bottoms

☕

[heavensghost]

David Bottoms, from “Black Horses,” Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch.

[littlepines]

YOU WERE MY SUN, BUT IT’S DARK NOW

1. unknown  2.  mark z. danielewski / house of leaves  3.  5000letters 4. fyodor dostoyevsky / the brothers karamazov 5. alexander harding / visible light 6. etton / every time the sun comes up 7. karese burrows / poem for your leaving  8. david bottoms / we almost disappear  9. tom hansen / rattle #24  10. paco pomet 11. benjamin s. grossberg / the space traveler talks frankly about desire

[invisiblebeesstuff]

"Maybe I'll rise from the dead. / Or live as a shadow. Or maybe I'll never leave you."

- David Bottoms, from 'Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch,' Otherworld, Underworld, Prayer Porch: Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2018)

[titusandrogynousxvx]

Could I be just another sinner who needs to be blinded   before he can see? Lord, is it possible to fall   toward grace? Could I be moved to believe in new beginnings? Could I be moved?

“In a U-Haul North of Damascus” by David Bottoms

[bluewillowmoon]

“You tell me what the end looks like to you, / and I’ll tell you about a river / under a night sky, / about the stars guttering out, one by one, / while a thicket of scrub pine darkens into a wall.”

— David Bottoms, from section 2 of “Campfire in a Light Rain,” We Almost Disappear: Poems (Copper Canyon Press, 2011)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

[SGI :: from my flickr files]

* * * *

Nothing, not a cracker, not a crumb. Still a vague intimation shadows the memory of this place, and others, that somewhere down the pike these landscapes are waiting again, or are, perhaps, the only things we take with us— our psychic terrain— as though through memory we create our own afterlives— which can’t be the entire breadth of it all, …  but in some way a homeland, a landscape out of which we might ramble into the afterlives, yes, the memories, of one another… [David Bottoms]