Your dream doesn’t have an expiration date. Take a deep breath and try again.
I need some peace of mind and I need you to be here. I hate needing anything and yet I do […]
Not every sky is
reflected in the puddle. Not every love wanders in to stay.
Are you talking to yourself? Yes, I’m talking to my selves.
Sometimes we’re just an echo of what we meant to say.
—Richard Jackson, from “Is This the Person to Whom I am Speaking,” in Out of Place (Ashland Poetry Press, 2014)
They devour each other and cannot even digest themselves.
The light poured through the windows upon his photographs and the poem of us sitting together a last time. Robert dying: creating silence. Myself, destined to live, listening closely to a silence that would take a lifetime to express.
you are crying
and the angels sit
telling him to stop
feeling so pained
“where does it hurt?” they ask,
he points to you.
Discussing Birdlife At The Cheese And Wine Do
A poem is a tiny thesis on how to group words.
Should we pluralise dreams or say it was a single dream
in which the arrow wouldn’t fly as far as the cornfields?
Magpies recognise their own bodies in a mirror
and so it’s not surprising that everything that shines
stands also as a symbol for their ingenuity.
Look how the flightless birds around Antarctica,
shuffling proud as pepper-pots from the wild, flat snows,
use stones in lieu of eggs; to teach us the meaning of a metaphor.
What do you mean you can’t imagine it? That’s your job.
Your earlobes were painted on a cave-wall in Yunnan
nine-hundred years before your parents met in Vancouver.
In Mykonos pelicans have risen, pink and perennial,
making the upright fishing boats of ten generations
like coastal trees flowering into feathered tufts.
You too must have seen, in the acacias of Nairobi,
in dusky cloaks like a waiting room of old men,
the grey storks, from every taxicab, line the road.
I’ll be over here by the pretzels until you decide.
The vitamin B in my body is so low I might even succumb
to chemically induced psychosis at any moment.
It may only take two more sips of this free wine
for me to learn why madness is a figure of speech
for taking flight across an unfamiliar city.
There are accepted revolutions, revolutions which are called revolutions; there are refused revolutions, which are called riots.
The Catch 22 with poor people and clothes is that if you wear “expensive” looking or upperclass coded clothes, rich people claim that you don’t need help and are taking advantage of welfare. But if you wear “cheap” looking or lower class coded clothes, then they see you as “trashy” and tell you that it’s your presentation and manner of dress that are to blame for classism and discrimination against you.
Men write universal stories. Women write stories for girls. Men write Literature. Women write chick lit. Even in a world where women do publish in heavier numbers than men do, they are underscored, underseen, and undervalued. Twilight is and will remain a crucial part of YA’s history — YA’s female-driven history — despite or in spite of the fact it doesn’t garner the same praises that those held up as idols within the community do. Men like John Green become symbols of YA’s forward progress and Seriousness as a category, whereas Stephenie Meyer gets to be a punchline.