#ross white

[st4rshiptr00per]

chapter one page two begins

[st4rshiptr00per]

i know hes literally my oc and i invented him and he consists mainly of recombined detritus of my own psyche but i need him.

[darktimemachinechaos]

Dopo la morte prematura della madre, due fratelli, uno dei quali affetto da sindrome di Down, si propongono di esaudire la sua lista dei desideri prima di vendere la fattoria di famiglia nell'Irlanda del Nord.

An Irish Goodbye (2022), dir. Tom Berkeley e Ross White

[moviemosaics]

An Irish Goodbye

directed by Tom Berkeley and Ross White, 2022

[mugglenet]

David Bradley Stars in Short Film "Roy"

Watch the trailer for David Bradley’s new emotive and heartwarming short film, “Roy.”

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

In 27D --Ross White

After hours of delay and a particularly long layover,

the voice promising me clear blue skies sounds like I imagined God

would when he asked me to forgive. And the stewardess

pushing a cart toward me, with her smart, ruby lips,

thick eyelashes, and unconventional snakeskin boots,

looks like I imagined Venus would if she wagged a finger at me,

inviting me to something forbidden. Michelangelo’s David,

on the cover of the in-flight magazine, flexes the chest I thought I’d have

if I could work shame’s nine tails across my back

enough to diet on grapes or bike to the gym.

The housefly, the only one I’ve ever seen on a plane,

caroming between seatbacks like a fire drunk on its own heat,

looks like I imagined I might if I died in a plane crash

and was immediately shuttled back into the living body I deserve.

If I close my eyes and let the engine noise drown out all this useless sense,

I can hear Venus as a heron and see God as a never-ending chest

of drawers, each one of the infinite shades of blue,

can feel the surprising litheness of stretched snakeskin,

and smell brush burning on the prairie,

and my next body is the wavering sunlight through the surface of water.

[cherryboysoda]

The white brothers

[danielriddlerodriguez]

ILLNESS NARRATIVE --Ross White

Because I am horrible, I don’t care about your illness narrative. I am sick myself. Of myself. & so magnolia hurls its white blossoms toward spring, & so the weevils stain the cotton with their young. Here, a new scarf, a crude wooden figurine of a long-nosed troll. My lungs are dark & stringy, contaminated by the nearby, listless heart. & so fishermen wrench pollock from the sea & walleye from the river, & so pails fill with milk. Tell me a story that doesn’t end in senseless trauma. I don’t care what you have to go through to conjure it. & so the godwits thrust their bills into the black shore, & so the grackle’s black feathers stain blue skies seeking a friendly branch. It is easier to invent than to listen. Through the window, I see the world wondering how to stun us all with its magnificence but everywhere the wounded are walking & talking. & so the anchors find the waiting seabed, & so the moon rides up on its dark chariot. Tell me that story, the one where night lifts its lesser stars & strokes them like pets, & the incensed sun lashes its reflection to a hunk of rock revolving around earth. & so all shadows will be reminders, enough sometimes to make me feel loved.