Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
One night, one night in many many nights like the glint of a velvety pebble
in the rim of the brown moon's swallow
I lay in bed feeling the itchiness of my skin running taut through a parsed
desert of stillness.
I sighed into my own hair, imagining it was your's and I began to be afraid of what
I did not know.
The most understated and beautiful part about a person's features are their eyelids, when they glance down as in to collect their thoughts. Their eyelids are like the waxy bellies of ripe buds and I stagger a smile inside.
in the rim of the brown moon's swallow
I lay in bed feeling the itchiness of my skin running taut through a parsed
desert of stillness.
I sighed into my own hair, imagining it was your's and I began to be afraid of what
I did not know.
The most understated and beautiful part about a person's features are their eyelids, when they glance down as in to collect their thoughts. Their eyelids are like the waxy bellies of ripe buds and I stagger a smile inside.
Monday, April 20, 2009
A memorandum
Very few people follow this, thus I can write whatever the fuck I want.
My favorite dead man had a son, his son was rumored in 2008 to begin publishing his father's "new" book:
"Sounds like the late Russian novelist Vladimir Nabokov just pulled off a literary feat. Thirty-one years after his death, and from the grave, he's giving the world a story. And it's playing out through his son, Dmitri Nabokov, and how he has resolved his moral dilemma over whether to destroy or to publish the incomplete manuscript of his father's last novel, “The Original of Laura.”
Vladimir's dying wish was for his son to destroy the work, written in pencil on about 50 index cards."
Well here we are in 2009: Nabokov's son finally strikes
so yes. what a man.
My favorite dead man had a son, his son was rumored in 2008 to begin publishing his father's "new" book:
"Sounds like the late Russian novelist Vladimir Nabokov just pulled off a literary feat. Thirty-one years after his death, and from the grave, he's giving the world a story. And it's playing out through his son, Dmitri Nabokov, and how he has resolved his moral dilemma over whether to destroy or to publish the incomplete manuscript of his father's last novel, “The Original of Laura.”
Vladimir's dying wish was for his son to destroy the work, written in pencil on about 50 index cards."
Well here we are in 2009: Nabokov's son finally strikes
so yes. what a man.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A very simple non-memory
You are pinocchio, we share the same things in common
a wall covered in the thinnest of paper to denote the thickest of books
it is just like me, what are my hands but a few crumbled, browning napkins dangling
from the neck of apples?
A jar of dusty fruit butter weighs heavily on a metal shelf, it's glassy ass cradled
by the inverted crown of a circle stamped in hastily cut out cardboard squares
over the years it becomes spongy and soft, like what I had imagined prostrate cancer to feel like
The door opens and there's no one.
It's cool, it's all cool because I wasn't looking in the first place
my heart is a tight metronome at night, it's the lion who has tourettes in
a jungle of creases and fleeces.
At night cotton turns into blood and I wade in dimpled red
Is he looking? Did he stop one day, one nanosecond?
Does he feel like he lost? Like I feel...artificially whole?
Would he ride snow covered trains forming the narthex of countries,
splicing up continents like minimalist basilicas?
or is he content right now? a belly filled with accidental fish scales
old knees creaking against the branches that are his bones.
My bones.
The television casting a fluid ghost over his skipping pupils
breathing behind a pair of heavily rimmed, shit brown glasses while
his son, in frayed and loose shorts slap on the tiles with his feet
and slam into his quickly retreating lap for attention?
Maybe I'm above all that.
a wall covered in the thinnest of paper to denote the thickest of books
it is just like me, what are my hands but a few crumbled, browning napkins dangling
from the neck of apples?
A jar of dusty fruit butter weighs heavily on a metal shelf, it's glassy ass cradled
by the inverted crown of a circle stamped in hastily cut out cardboard squares
over the years it becomes spongy and soft, like what I had imagined prostrate cancer to feel like
The door opens and there's no one.
It's cool, it's all cool because I wasn't looking in the first place
my heart is a tight metronome at night, it's the lion who has tourettes in
a jungle of creases and fleeces.
At night cotton turns into blood and I wade in dimpled red
Is he looking? Did he stop one day, one nanosecond?
Does he feel like he lost? Like I feel...artificially whole?
Would he ride snow covered trains forming the narthex of countries,
splicing up continents like minimalist basilicas?
or is he content right now? a belly filled with accidental fish scales
old knees creaking against the branches that are his bones.
My bones.
The television casting a fluid ghost over his skipping pupils
breathing behind a pair of heavily rimmed, shit brown glasses while
his son, in frayed and loose shorts slap on the tiles with his feet
and slam into his quickly retreating lap for attention?
Maybe I'm above all that.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Spring 2009 came early
Despite the bone chilling deep freeze that exists in reality world, spring has come for the fashion sphere. So here I am, in bed sipping chocolate soy milk and listening to the Kooks while I present...my tippity top picks for this season (so far, as I have seen):
Oh Rodarte, I loved you since I first met you when I was a young girl two years ago in front of the ol' teevee. The sisters have been leaning towards more apocalyptic chic-with the layered criss crossing of chaotic swaths and the flashes of tinsel green embedded in a sea of neutral tones. I really miss the draping though, Rodarte is amazing with chiffon and flowy things...so that's my personal suggestion
I like the short skirt and the rib hugging kick ass shape.
I usually don't like Marc Jacobs very much, but the high cinched purple waist does it for me
Proenza Schouler talked about how the velvet melted into chiffon and it was all about tearing it away and breaking it down
Erin Fetherston, this is a bit gothic for me(not to mention, scary model) but I like heavy fabric and complicated silhouettes
Oh Rodarte, I loved you since I first met you when I was a young girl two years ago in front of the ol' teevee. The sisters have been leaning towards more apocalyptic chic-with the layered criss crossing of chaotic swaths and the flashes of tinsel green embedded in a sea of neutral tones. I really miss the draping though, Rodarte is amazing with chiffon and flowy things...so that's my personal suggestion
I like the short skirt and the rib hugging kick ass shape.
I usually don't like Marc Jacobs very much, but the high cinched purple waist does it for me
Proenza Schouler talked about how the velvet melted into chiffon and it was all about tearing it away and breaking it down
Erin Fetherston, this is a bit gothic for me(not to mention, scary model) but I like heavy fabric and complicated silhouettes
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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