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"Pink Lemonade" by Michael Edminster

Thinking of you, one thinks of what you could have become. You were, and you will remain, made up of possibilities.

- Edouard Levé, Suicide, trans. Jan Steyn (via proustitute)

DEAD FLOWERS: A Poetry Rag

Many thanks to Bohemian Pupil Press in Chicago and to guest editor Jessica Tufte for publishing my poem “Dying Afternoon” in today’s edition of Dead Flowers: A Poetry Rag. It’s an honor to have a word amongst the 12 poets selected.

neonneonofficial:

Neon Neon full page feature in latest NME. Useful info on Feltrinelli #NME #NN2

neonneonofficial:

Neon Neon full page feature in latest NME. Useful info on Feltrinelli #NME #NN2

Mar 5

Our footsteps are the road, nothing more; let’s trip the light fantastic toe!

(14 songs - 54:00)

(Source: 8tracks.com)

Mar 2

Traveler, There Is No Road

Traveler, your footsteps
are the road, nothing more;
traveler, there is no road,
you make the road by walking.
By walking you make the road,
and when you look back
you see the path that
you’ll never walk again.
Traveler, there is no road,
only the wake of a ship in the sea.

- Antonio Machado

Dec 7

In a Bad Time

How mad would he have to be to say, “He beheld
An order and thereafter he belonged
To it”? He beheld the order of the northern sky.

But the beggar gazes on calamity
And thereafter he belongs to it, to bread
Hard found, and water tasting of misery.

For him cold’s glacial beauty is his fate.
Without understanding, he belongs to it
And the night, and midnight, and after, where it is.

What has he? What he has he has. But what?
It is not a question of captious repartee.
What has he that becomes his heart’s strong core?

He has his poverty and nothing more.
His poverty becomes his heart’s strong core—
A forgetfulness of summer at the pole.

Sordid Melpomene, why strut bare boards,
Without scenery or lights, in the theatre’s bricks,
Dressed high in heliotrope’s inconstant hue,

The muse of misery? Speak loftier lines.
Cry out, “I am the purple muse.” Make sure
The audience beholds you, not your gown.

- wallacestevens

The Soul’s Desert

They are warming up the old horrors; and all that they
     say is echoes of echoes.
Beware of taking sides; only watch.
These are not criminals, nor hucksters and little jour-
     nalists, but the governments
Of the great nations; men favorably
Representative of massed humanity. Observe them.
     Wrath and laughter
Are quite irrelevant. Clearly it is time
To become disillusioned, each person to enter his own
     soul’s desert
And look for God—having seen man.


-Robinson Jeffers, August 30, 1939

Nov 7

Morro Bay

Beautiful years when she was by me and we visited
Every rock and creek of the coast—
She gave life from her eyes. Now the bay is brown-
        stagnant
With rotting weed, and the stranded fish-boats
Reek in the sun; but still the great rock hangs like a
        thundercloud
Over the stale mist and still sea.
They say that it swarms with rattlesnakes—right—the
        stored lightnings
In the stone cloud. Guard it well, vipers.
That Norman rockhead Mont St. Michel may have been
        as beautiful as this one
Once, long ago, before it was built on.

—Robinson Jeffers