Wildrose is resourceful Its geophysiology is vast It threw runners To make landbridge It threw pollen With voracious joy. Underground network of wildrose Linking all the political lovers And infinite breathing flesh In each temporality experienced Is resurgent insurrection The form of life of wildrose Is experiment in relationship Also named Plex.
Earth the tousled rosebed! Belly and horizon! Wildrose suckers freely from underground stems and roots Forming dense colonies that run wild This wedding names everyone wildrose.
After eons of fauna and flora, hominids have stood for mere years baffled brains atop battered shoulders. We bury bodies in shallow dirt, heedless of lacking space or how long our makeshift planet will host us. Still, I feel it inside its cage sounding a dull tattoo: I want, I want—.
I stand before my routine reflection, button up my sanity, brush weary strands of hair with pomade and seal cracked lips of distrust with cocoa butter and matte rouge. I ready myself once again for morning and mortify. For a moment, I stand with ghosts and the framed ancestors surrounding me.
When she held a body, she saw much worse than this. I know she was earshot and fingertip close to oppression. She saw how hateful hate could be. She raised babies, taught Stone Rangers, grew a natural and wrote around critics. Another day, when I have to tip-toe around the police and passive-aggressive emails from people who sit only a few feet away from me.
They want me to like it, or at least pretend, so the pretty veils that blanket who we really are— this complicated history, can stay pretty and veiled like some desert belly dancer who must be seen but not heard. We are a world of lesions. Human has become hindrance. Ignorance has become powerful. The dice that rolls our futures is platinum but hollow inside. Did you see that, Ms. They are skinning our histories, deporting our roots, detonating our very right to tell the truth. We are one step closer to annihilation. Hold On everybody. Hold On because the poets are still alive—and writing.
Hold On to the last of the disappearing bees and that Great Barrier Reef. Hold On to the one sitting next to you, not masked behind some keyboard.
The one right next to you. The ones who live and love right next to you. Hold On to them. When we kneel on the rubbled mosques, sit in massacred prayer circles, Holding On is what gets us through. We must remember who we are. We are worth fighting for. Hold On. Even if all you have left is that middle finger around your God-given right to be free, to be heard, to be loved, and remembered…Hold On, and keep Holding. We are bodies dropped to the floor.
We are shaking. We are our own. Still, somehow, we are laughter. We are the doorway out.
We are again the doorway in. I had for my winter evening walk— No one at all with whom to talk, But I had the cottages in a row Up to their shining eyes in snow. And I thought I had the folk within: I had the sound of a violin; I had a glimpse through curtain laces Of youthful forms and youthful faces. I had such company outward bound. I went till there were no cottages found. I turned and repented, but coming back I saw no window but that was black. We woke to the darkness before our eyes, unable to take the measure of the loss.
Who are they.
What are we. Too late for hope. Too far along to meet a country, a people, its annihilating need.
In need of protection, she finds shelter and comfort in the arms of Theseus, son of Poseidon Our Skin Thanks Us Delivery is available for LA and OC areas. Napping Princess light novel : The Story of the Unknown Me Kenji Kamiyama When Kokone sleeps she dreams of Heartland, a place full of technology and warring machines, where she's the Princess Ancien who possesses magical powers. All the ceramic work from Knotwork is made by Los Angeles freelance industrial designer Linda Hsiao, who creates small ceramic and wood work. It has to Be a Good Life His reality does not allow him to exist.
I would open my hand from the wrist, step outside, not lose nerve. Here is the day, still to be lived. We do not fully know what we do. Desert sun softens the first color of the rock. I never want to get any More new things. A cause and no curve, a cause and loud enough, a cause and extra a loud clash and an extra wagon, a sign of extra, a sac a small sac and an established color and cunning, a slender grey and no ribbon, this means a loss a great loss a restitution.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight! Suffering I drifted to you Seeing my suffering you suffered Our conference on calamity Our joints moved against wind Sustained our growing pain Until protruding bones From our rumpled skin coats Broke through to expose Their staid, stagnant structures To a cat we were dual cat castles A bird perched upon my clavicle To a friend traveling by We no longer existed But our suffering did. Oh my fierce mother, sanding away at the kitchen table protected by newspapers, The Herald, The Forward, The Traveler, her little brush, her jar of paste preserving and inventing the past— for what?
For today, half-conscious glimpse of myself on my way out for a walk in February snow, with a friend, or alone,.
I want to really say something here. I want to be clear. Not conversations as much as serial misunderstandings, proximate in space. The obsessive heat-seeking quality of attraction. The paint on my pinkie is for you—a little poison, a little turpentine. The snaggletooth I want to stick my tongue into. This is pigment from a rock, this is pigment from a bug, this is pigment from a bleeding heart, and this is jeopardy. Passion brought me here, but passion cannot save me.
To mix linseed and varnish, to create something is to vanish what was there before. Chroma for fastness, chemistry tricks. Such bold strokes in erasing and framing delicate beginnings. There is no fixed place and by that I mean take a look at things that are.
Split by the turn of year, its newness and all it brings, which of its possibilities can we trust? She finds herself dreaming of children and many other delicacies. Sugared eggs. A lost palace. On her back, Elsa holds her breath, her hands beneath her, resisting, resisting. That temptation can be such a dirty rat. The traditional fears, the habitual tropes of exclusion Like ominous menhirs, close into their ring about the dark times. Some of the young can project themselves into a Marshall Plan future Where they laugh and link arms, reminiscing about the dark times.
From every spot-lit glitz tower with armed guards around it Some huckster pronounces his fiats, self-sacralized king, about the dark times. In a tent, in a queue, near barbed wire, in a shipping container, Please remember ya akhy , we too know something about the dark times. You come home from your meeting, your clinic, make coffee and look in the mirror And ask yourself once more what you did to bring about the dark times. The banners unfurled by the warden Float Up high in the air and sink down; the Moat Is black as a plume on a casque; my Light, Like a patch of high light on a flask, makes Night A gibbering goblin that bars the way- So noisy, familiar, and safe by day.
Aye, workman, make me a dream, A dream for my love.
Cunningly weave sunlight, Breezes, and flowers. Let it be of the cloth of meadows. And—good workman— And let there be a man walking thereon. I meant to say how I loved the birds, how watching them lift off the branches, hearing their song helps me get through the gray morning.