Poet | Scholar | Emcee | Part of the Rebel Alliance | Traitor.
"There he goes. One of God's own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die." ~Raoul Duke in "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas"

 

incidentalcomics:

Understanding Poetry
Happy National Poetry Month! This comic was inspired by one of my favorite poems, "The New Poetry Handbook" by Mark Strand. This month on Incidental Comics, I’ll be exploring the world of poetry. A place, as Marianne Moore famously said, of  ”imaginary gardens with real toads in them.”

incidentalcomics:

Understanding Poetry

Happy National Poetry Month! This comic was inspired by one of my favorite poems, "The New Poetry Handbook" by Mark Strand. This month on Incidental Comics, I’ll be exploring the world of poetry. A place, as Marianne Moore famously said, of  ”imaginary gardens with real toads in them.”

dreams-of-tea:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-T4alaf96BoA

Alysia Harris Featuring Bridget Barkan- Depth Over Distance

My nail beds are still painted “Eggplant” for you.

The eggs on your plate are hard scrambled.

Morning, my time comes a bit too early for your blind eyes, for your capable heart.

So I snuck over the sun buttered mountains,

Barely spotted your town of 9000

Entered your storied home and kicked off the snow.

Let your Old English Mastiff’s all 240 pounds bark in my face

Lick my black nylons from knee to thigh.

The marble kitchen permanently smelled of cilantro.

And your hands were huge.

With one thumb nail for strumming Flamenco, baby,

I could’ve danced for you all night

Feet like pearls aglow in the lights of your lavender candle

There was the labor of music coming from your room

When you locked us in

When you looked at me like my first name was “Now.”

My body instantly visible and pliable

We were naked and raw and it didn’t feel wrong

Our hips like a tide

There was a sea beneath us

Carrying the sort of love nonsense we spelled on sheets, cleft notes and

Time signatures and treble, treble, treble.

The first night, you weren’t supposed to undress me, but you did.

I couldn’t resist either.

Just like, just like the first time I grabbed your hand ten minutes after meeting you.

It was like this right here, this artist, this Autistic genius, this flawed beauty, this man who plants lilacs

And drinks vinegar in the morning so

It wasn’t surprising how quickly it all went sour.

You wouldn’t draw me when I asked you to.

Instead you inappropriately used the nib of your calligraphy pen to split boxes

To sculpt the underside of silence

And when you said my name over a bowl of cooling soup it lost all its definition.

I knew you were in love with a vision, just not the woman attached.

I was afraid to say the wrong thing

To speak strongly

Our last night together, you spilled your ink on the page

I rushed to fill the space with words

We were too holy to bathe

If for an instant the truth is absurd then

Amen to it, and amen to us

I didn’t care whether you were white and skinny

Whether you lived in Oregon or not.

Hell, I wanted you to need a reason to need to make it rhyme

All I needed was a one way heart

And a west coast flight

And I’m not asking you to change your mind

Just, just think about the depth when you remember the distance.

How 3000 miles is not longer than the moments spent between us.

Our next fight came quick on the heels of my return.

You didn’t call to say you missed me.

You didn’t call to say you cared.

And just like that, we were over. Easy.

I half laughed.

Half cried.

Didn’t know if it was the jet lag or if I had just gotten used to sleeping in late and calling you mine.

But the whole time, your bed was low and flat.

Scarcely six inches off the ground.

At any point, I could’ve stood to my feet

And walked away.

 

There is sexism – I’m not denying its existence,” she says. “But I’m saying that I will deny its effort against me. I just pay it no nevermind and say, ‘Get out of my way.

- Julia Louis-Dreyfus on the cover of ROLLING STONE.

Read the full story here.

(via thenthwave)

Needle was Robb and Bran and Rickon, her mother and her father, even Sansa. Needle was Winterfell’s grey walls, and the laughter of its people. Needle was the summer snows, Old Nan’s stories, the heart tree with its red leaves and scary face, the warm earthy smell of the glass gardens, the sound of the north wind rattling the shutters of her room. Needle was Jon Snow’s smile.

(Source: aryastarks)