The San Antonio Spurs make the playoffs. A lot. →
Samuel Beckett on his ideal gravestone:
empirewithoutanemperor: “It can be any colour, so long as it’s grey.”
You can read my story, “Let Us,” for free over at the Sonora Review Short Fiction Fortnight. Thanks, Benjamin!
I have two 3-hole punches; I do not have a stapler.
Letter to poet requesting future drunk
nickcourtright: Dear person, You live on Earth and I live on Earth and we both have word diseases so sometime we should commiserate on our suffering with beer. Maybe together we can have a good cry for language and our souls. Thoughts? Nick
schooner poems →
15 Wonderful Words With No English Equivalent →
nevver: 1. Zhaghzhagh (Persian) The chattering of teeth from the cold or from rage. 2. Yuputka (Ulwa) A word made for walking in the woods at night, it’s the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin. 3. Slampadato (Italian) Addicted to the infra-red glow of tanning salons? This word describes you. 4. Luftmensch (Yiddish) The Yiddish have scores of words to describe...
Forthcoming August 2012 →
The Building of the Skyscraper
The steel worker on the girder Learned not to look down, and does his work And there are words we have learned Not to look at, Not to look for substance Below them. But we are on the verge Of vertigo. There are words that mean nothing But there is something to mean. Not a declaration which is truth But a thing Which is. It is the business of the poet ‘To suffer the things of the...
Gleams, a green lamp In the fog: Murmur, in almost A dialogue Siren and signal Siren to signal. Parts the shore from the fog, Rise there, tower on tower, Signs of stray light And of power. Siren to signal Siren to signal. Hour-gongs and the green Of the lamp. Plash. Night. Plash. Sky.
Roses that wear roses Enjoy mirrors. Roses that wear roses must enjoy The flowers they are worn by. Roses that wear roses are dying With a mirror behind them. None of us are younger but the roses Are dying. Men and women have weddings and funerals Are conceived and destroyed in a formal Procession. Roses die upon a bed of roses With mirrors weeping at them.
Everything I know is something I’ve repeated. Lazy horn solo tries to wander off, but can’t, or does, and we don’t notice. Veterans Day flags lap idly at their poles. The day is warm. “The.”
Through the wood on his motorcycle piercing the hawk, the jay the blue-coated policeman Woods, barren woods, as this typewriter without an object or the words that from you fall soundless The sun lowering and the bags of paper on the stoney ledge near the waterfall Voices down the roadway and leaves falling over there a great vacancy a huge left over The quality of the day...
Quiet as is proper for such places; The street, subdued, half-snow, half-rain, Endless, but ending in the darkened doors. Inside, they who will be there always, Quiet as is proper for such people— Enough for now to be here, and To know my door is one of these.
from Six Significant Landscapes
III I measure myself Against a tall tree. I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun, With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way the ants crawl In and out of my shadow.