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And people are often unable to do anything, imprisoned as they are in I don’t know what kind of terrible, terrible, oh such terrible cage. […] Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But whenever affection is revived, there life revives.
Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother Theo (July 1880)

(via airwalker)

Jan 4, 2012 / 1,756 notes
Dec 31, 2011

Creepin in with some early spring stuff

Dec 30, 2011

Lightheads Guide to the Galaxy

Ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and children of the state, 
I am here because I could never get the hang of Time. 
This hour, for example, would be like all the others 
were it not for the rain falling through the roof. 
I’d better not be too explicit. My night is careless 
with itself, troublesome as a woman wearing no bra 
in winter. I believe everything is a metaphor for sex. 
Lovemaking mimics the act of departure, moonlight 
drips from the leaves. You can spend your whole life 
doing no more than preparing for life and thinking, 
“Is this all there is?” Thus, I am here where poets come 
to drink a dark strong poison with tiny shards of ice, 
something to loosen my primate tongue and its syllables 
of debris. I know all words come from preexisting words 
and divide until our pronouncements develop selves. 
The small dog barking at the darkness has something to say 
about the way we live. I’d rather have what my daddy calls 
“skrimp.” He says “discrete” and means the street 
just out of sight. Not what you see, but what you perceive: 
that’s poetry. Not the noise, but its rhythm; an arrangement 
of derangements; I’ll eat you to live: that’s poetry. 
I wish I glowed like a brown-skinned pregnant woman. 
I wish I could weep the way my teacher did as he read us 
Molly Bloom’s soliloquy of yes. When I kiss my wife, 
sometimes I taste her caution. But let’s not talk about that. 
Maybe Art’s only purpose is to preserve the Self. 
Sometimes I play a game in which my primitive craft fires 
upon an alien ship whose intention is the destruction 
of the earth. Other times I fall in love with a word 
like somberness. Or moonlight juicing naked branches. 
All species have a notion of emptiness, and yet 
the flowers don’t quit opening. I am carrying the whimper 
you can hear when the mouth is collapsed, the wisdom 
of monkeys. Ask a glass of water why it pities 
the rain. Ask the lunatic yard dog why it tolerates the leash. 
Brothers and sisters, when you spend your nights 
out on a limb, there’s a chance you’ll fall in your sleep.

-Terrance Hayes

Dec 25, 2011

diggin fo some spring inspiration.

Dec 25, 2011

Louise Bourgeios 

Dec 12, 2011
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 7, 2011

Always stuck

Dec 7, 2011

Shakin it all out today

"The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder."

-Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own, 1929

Nov 14, 2011 / 76 notes