— Ernest Hemingway (via rainydaysandblankets)
Let’s run in fields and through the dark together
Fall off swings and burn special things and both play outside in bad weather
Let’s eat badly,
Let’s watch adults drink wine and laugh at their idiocy
Let’s sit in the back of the car,
Making eye-contact with strangers driving past making them uncomfortable
Not caring, not swearing, don’t fuck
Let’s both reclaim our superpowers,
The ones we all have and lose with our milk teeth
The ability not to fear social awkwardness,
To panic when locked in the cellar, still sure there’s something down there
And while picking through pillows each feather,
Let’s both stay away from the edge of the bed, forcing us closer together
Let’s sit in public with ice-cream all over both our faces,
Sticking our tongues out at passers by,
Let’s cry, let’s swim, let’s everything
Let’s not find it funny lest someone falls over
Classical music is boring,
Poetry baffles us both,
There is nothing that’s said is what’s meant
Plays are long tiresome, sullen and filled with hours that could have be spent rolling down hills and grazing our knees on cement
Let’s hear stories and both lose our innocence,
Learn about parents and forgiveness, death and morality, kindness and art
Thus losing both of our innocent hearts,
But at least we won’t do it apart
Grow up with me"
— Keaton Henson, Grow Up With Me (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
(so much talent coming out of UMW’s English Dept- this is stunning)
The Turn :: lena moses-schmitt
Nights in October, this is what waits for me:
the dark length of my hallway, my hand stretched to the wall
because I still don’t know it well. Now it seems I live only in the dark:
I rise early, return late—biking always at night, my shadow leaving
& joining the black asphalt, disappearing & reappearing under streetlights,
a zoopraxiscope—one of those strips of paper with flip-book figures that spins,
& so adds up to one continuous image: a horse gallops round the reel,
a man bicycles in circles. One of the first movies: fifty silent seconds
of a train pulling into a station. The audience, overwhelmed, rushed
the back of the theater to avoid being hit. The white screen
flickering over the emptied seats, reality’s intrusion into the dark.
After a trip to the orchard, twenty pounds of apples in my refrigerator,
round bodies knocking in plastic bags like strangers
at the door. Plucking them blindly down from the high boughs: a kind of greed,
my hand reaching for what I thought was beauty—one side crimson,
pull, the other, rotten & gashed. I stand peering in at them in my kitchen, feet cold
on the tile. The roar & light pours from the fridge door like a reminder
of what’s to come: the freeze & ensuing thaw, soon enough.
Things will turn. But first, these days grow shorter & shorter. The rooms escape me.
I have forgotten already this apartment in daytime—if the sun fleshes
out each room or if it merely grazes them, one by one. The bottom of the orchard
floor was all shadow, trees that heavy with fruit. Tonight, I arrive at my locked-up bike
to find the headlight stolen—at intersections, the breath of cars go past,
no warning of me. I pause longer, unlit, feel for the change of air
just before a crash, the moment things turn.
And move on when none comes. When I get home, I talk with a friend
who lives in Europe. If it’s 3 am here, it’s 9 am there, & sometimes it is enough
to know that a day lives behind this. Thin as a curtain. A white lace
shade hangs over my window—outside, rustles & footsteps sound in the alley.
I move to stare out, knowing how my shadow must pass over the pane
rosy with lamplight. I want whoever is below to see it, for their vision to darken
under my silhouette. On my knee, a bruise
from colliding with the coffee table during a fumble for the switch. It ripens
like a plum above another scar, crescent dent in my calf, from a car accident
nine years ago today. Maybe we all repeat ourselves, flickering
round the wheel. One apartment over, a dog’s solitary bark in the quiet.
In the orchard, the thud of an apple on the sodden ground, traveling the golden
distance from branch to shade. The moments that peal like a bell but open
silent into terror. The apples will fall again, next year, & we will be there.
click through to read one of Brad’s newly published poems! talent, man. here it is.
her hair, before it is pinned
There was rhubarb jam in the morning
and every evening. Also a bowl of cherries.
That was my youth, when Liliana was beginning.
That was before I let a man wreck me,
or let a woman touch me. Before I knew
how a jaw could grow fierce and how suddenly.
Before I thought of the sun as explosion, dusk as death.
No one I knew had killed themselves or tried to.
I had not yet wanted to die.
I did not know how to talk about art. I did not know
the difference in need and want. I did not believe in God.
I was never hungry.
I am not afraid as I am now afraid.
sometimes I feel like
I think of time
in a weird way
like the way I remember
how long it has been since I last spoke to you
by how long it took to stop snowing
I often think of how long it’s been since my brother was born
as two presidential elections
months and days never seem to fit
as well or as accurately as
it took me as long as six different hairstyles
to finish high school
that my longest friendship to date
only lasted from 5 foot 4 to 5 foot 7
and now I am 5 foot 9
and I can no longer remember her phone number
I met you a broken heart ago
and I’ve only known you a goldfish’s lifespan
but I hope I at least know you
until my hair touches the middle of my spine again