I wouldn’t dare front— Beyoncé's redefining pop music tonight.
Blue Ivy spits hot fire.
All my friends are dead,
which is not to say that they were lost
but, rather, that I met them at a strange time in their lives,
after the votive candles were hushed
and their beds were neatly made.
I am introduced to Sylvia Plath
in the reflection of a hall mirror,
smudged up from neglect. Voiceless blows
a rustle of leaves on her cheeks,
hair tumbling down like sap over a willow neck.
It hasn’t been recently combed.
When I asked where she’s been,
the eyes of a carrion crow flicker back
On my shoulder she perches some avian words.
Our friends convene at the book club,
an incessant and mobile hullabaloo.
Dylan Thomas, like thunder, arrives roaring drunk
and rattles the chairs cursing death.
He is a grounded angel flapping his arms.
Then Ogden teases him for slurring speech,
“Go gentle into that wordy night,”
and everyone leans back with a sigh.
My friends are taciturn to my questions.
Between the lines they once wrote,
my fingers pry open
an eye of negative space,
like peering furiously through Persian blinds
to catch glimpse of a darkling thrush, mounted
fleetingly still on the cusp of hope’s fence post.
I am logging the secrets of their birdcalls.
This morning I cored an apple on my kitchen table and
nudged an elbow at Frost;
“Have you discovered what comes after apple picking?”
The white plume of hair dangled over his forehead
as a branch sags with snow;
from his frown, I know.
The ice blisters onto the pavement as
Sylvia and I course
through numbing streets, company
among a city in hibernation.
The people I pass are breathing, moving,
but thinking as much as the pin-up wreaths
that hang from the gallows of their front doors,
the stench of artificial pine on their collars.
My neighbor Kathy has waylaid us,
asking about city sanitation statutes and my mother
without shaking hands with T.S. Elliot,
Her thoughts are so loud she couldn’t have
heard old Thomas whimper.
But read on and read without
the confines of two dimensional words;
for a restless mind sprout through snow,
it deserves all the electricity
of friends too good for this world.
Of these strange friends I have met,
they have sung to me between spaces and
from voids, shouting from the otherwise emptiness that lurks
at the end of a caesura
as if it were the edge of the earth—
Stevens coos blackbird calls to me
through the January wind.
His voice, echoed up through the internal crevasse,
has kept my blood warmest today.
Against a film screen of fog, I see thirteen prismatic
avatars of his body,
glistening and white;
I cup my hands to call back and
sing to myself.
Jesus Christ is weeping in heaven hearing Christians espouse a socialist philosophy … It is impossible to love one’s neighbor as yourself without fighting against socialism
Jonathan Moseley (Northern Virginia Tea Party), in Response to Pope Francis
Thankfully, as it becomes increasingly politically irrelevant, the tea party remains a source of comedic gold. (via reblooged)
"You cannot serve both God and money." Good thing the Tea Party chose the latter or we’d have no jokes. Go Koch’s.
Finals studying has consisted of
-Reading Chronicles of a Death Foretold
-Reading Ogden Nash poetry
-Careening around inside Barnes & Noble
Finals studying will continue with
-Brave New World
-A general carelessness and subsequent over abundance of Michael Bublé.
Only cool kids study. Not me.
Birthday Songs for Kurt Vonnegut:
Styrofoam Boots (It’s All Nice On Ice, Alright) // Modest Mouse
"The flag of that church will be blue and gold," said Rumfoord. "These words will be written on that flag in gold letters on a blue field: Take Care of the People, and God Almighty Will Take Care of Himself."
- K.V., Sirens of Titan