After all this

I want the certainty of hidden roots


(via California | San Francisco)

1799: Head of the Year | Marge Piercy


"Head of the Year"
Marge Piercy

The moon is dark tonight, a new
moon for a new year. It is
hollow and hungers to be full.
It is the black zero of beginning.

Now you must void yourself
of injuries, insults, incursions.
Go with empty hands to those
you have hurt and make amends.

It is not too late. It is early
and about to grow. Now
is the time to do what you
know you must and have feared
to begin. Your face is dark
too as you turn inward to face
yourself, the hidden twin of
all you must grow to be.

Forgive the dead year. Forgive
yourself. What will be wants
to push through your fingers.
The light you seek hides
in your belly. The light you
crave longs to stream from
your eyes. You are the moon
that will wax in new goodness.

Shana tova!

I only want to walk/a little longer in the cold//blessing of the rain,/and lift my face to it.


Three Japanese-American women pose for the camera at a wedding in Seattle, 1956. From espressobuzz.

"Slow Leak"
Ellen Doré Watson

I don’t know how to wish you well.
Your hair is out of control, you are downgraded and strange.
You used to be the man who whopped open his chest,
wandered on a happy shoestring, made a nearly
perfect girl. Times we were electric.
Our talks teased out newness, mixed surprising
pigment. Our battles were not over ground
that mattered, so we walked away from them
with invisible limps, beautiful sticks
with no blood. Thinking ourselves
a perfect fit, we began to forget each other.
The way the roots of a perfect lawn watered too much
get lazy. You thought you should not
have to ask. I thought my private fizzings
and stirrings weightless, but you got sapped.
Your secret began as a scar and turned
to a decision flavored with payback.
The size of my thirst, your silence!
Between us now is the continent we didn’t
finish, and one person’s regret.
Because you have none, this is what I will never
tell you: I took too many days off
from loving you. And: I thought we could both
get larger. And: Neither of us was the right one
to unlock the other’s body. My iron lung
of a father has become soft tissue,
joshing and washing the woman not quite still
my mother—a long tack in a small, hand-made boat.
You and I were so full of beans and promise—
I’m ashamed we failed at forever.

(Source: exceptindreams)

Yamamoto Masao

Here we are again. I am holding half an acre of Michigan
in my left hand, the map in soft focus behind us.
You, you are Pacific headband & Ohio heartland,

touching Toledo to your chest like it wasn’t a place we’d ever said aloud.
In the attic, the bats are unfolding awake. Your look is fenceless:
coke bottle glasses, eyes wandering behind the rims

like tropical fish. I do not notice the short frets of your spine in this dream,
do not think to fingerprint your bedrock, do not feel the rumbling
of honeypot ants gathering crumbs down the length

of my torso, waiting for the shiver of our first winter together
to salt & pepper shakedown decades later, no. In this dream,
our knees bristle against the carpet stubble

& I do not notice the humidity hugging your top lip. Your smile
is broken, & the moons of my thumbnails slide
between the folds of the Midwest.

— Meg Day, “After Getting Caught Staring, Twice” (via pigmenting)
  • “If They Come In The Night”

    Long ago on a night of danger and vigil
    a friend said, why are you happy?
    He explained (we lay together
    on a cold hard floor) what prison
    meant because he had done
    time, and I talked of the death
    of friends. Why are you happy
    then, he asked, close to

    I said, I like my life. If I
    have to give it back, if they
    take it from me, let me
    not feel I wasted any, let me
    not feel I forgot to love anyone
    I meant to love, that I forgot
    to give what I held in my hands,
    that I forgot to do some little
    piece of the work that wanted
    to come through.

    Sun and moonshine, starshine,
    the muted light off the waters
    of the bay at night, the white
    light of the fog stealing in,
    the first spears of morning
    touching a face
    I love. We all lose
    everything. We lose
    ourselves. We are lost.

    Only what we manage to do
    lasts, what love sculpts from us;
    but what I count, my rubies, my
    children, are those moments
    wide open when I know clearly
    who I am, who you are, what we
    do, a marigold, an oakleaf, a meteor,
    with all my senses hungry and filled
    at once like a pitcher with light.

    Marge Piercy
    (via the always wonderful exceptindreams)


Ishawooa Mesa Ranch in 1905 in South Fork Valley, Wyoming, USA.
Contributed by Maya Rieselbach.

    Holy, Holy Whomever


    From the start, I carried you
    in my pocket and not in my heart. I want to forget that
    my body is borrowed from dirt.
    And heaven is no higher than my own library.
    I realize I’m dreaming again but it’s real: the lights
    are getting weirder like a disco ball. I cut out
    my heart with a dollar bill. Some unseen force pushes us
    like carts across the supermarket parking lot.
    I know what the steam rising from my tea means,
    and the mingling plumes from two chimneys:
    the body ruins everything. The stars are stuck in dark.
    The moon becomes an inky green. In some dreams
    you paint a self-portrait with your wings.
    And the most beautiful thing you do is disappear
    each time an hour turns into a year.
    I’m looking for a god that comes like a rod
    of lightning or a sudden airhorn,
    a bee sting, anything other than the usual
    bones beneath our scars.

    C. Dylan Bassett


    To Love Well

    is to place a hand
     on another’s chest and know
     that the heart only beats
     when locked in a cage
     of bone.

    Ocean Vuong

    Bill Jacobson. (Untitled) #3775, 2000.
  • atavus:

    Chiharu Shiota - A Room of Memory, 2009

    First image via [Haunch of Venison]

  • fierce as fuck