lunchboxpoems:

Your singular laugh sounded
like too many. Your split lips
practiced a kiss they won’t
remember: the way lemons
score the board before & 
after cutting. Tension puckers
any parting’s core. Sometimes
you flash by mirrors: tangled 
hair tide-parted & I remember
seaweed, the salt of lasting,
the briny blast of love mid-air.

RODNEY WITTWER

lunchboxpoems:

What if everything 


were revealed: where I was

last night. You, etc. The rain

is coming down like salad.


My sister’s hair


reminds me of my sister

so much I can’t 

stop looking. Who am I


to have arms? On the plane

one short dream:

a baby so small

it wasn’t even human,

just a bouquet 


of light with wise

cellular eyes. If losing me

is the worst thing to happen,


your life is still a good life

 

EMILY KENDAL FREY

(Source: fyrefiends, via pin-curls)

airwalker:

“I have always been a wretched speaker. My vocabulary dwells deep in my mind and needs paper to wriggle out into the physical zone. Spontaneous eloquence seems to me a miracle. I have rewritten — often several times — every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasures.”

—

: Vladimir Nabokov (via clavicola)

Tallulah Bankhead with her pet lion, Winston Churchill, 1941

photos by Carl Van Vechten

(via pin-curls)

.PRINTS. (by alison scarpulla)

awritersruminations:

“Home is where one starts from. As we grow older The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment And not the lifetime of one man only But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. There is a time for the evening under starlight, A time for the evening under lamplight (The evening with the photograph album). Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.”

—

T.S. Eliot, from “East Coker” from Four Quartets

atomos:

(by Dan Lansley)

(via rebeccagrr)

ahuntersheart:

There are no starfish in the sky tonight,
But there is one below your belly,
And there are cold evenings in your eyes.

If I could get to your house
I would look under the bed of your childhood,
The tongueless loafer without laces or eyes,
The cave of your young foot
With its odor of moon, its dampness
Coming from underground, your shoe
Which also bled and is now an island.

You have to remember these are the memories
Of a survivor, you have to remember.

You could be looking for clay to haul away,
Fill for the deep washouts of your love.
All your old loves, they bled to death, too.

Your hair is like a cemetery full of hands,
Fingers in the moonlight.

When you come down to the heart
Bring your post-hole diggers and crowbar.
Do not set a corner, a fence won’t last.
Do not bury our first child there,
Or set a post,
Although I have tasted blood on the lips of a stranger,
At night and in the rain.
-Frank Stanford, “Amaranth”

valuska:

from the love letters of Zelda Fitzgerald, Part IV

— Since you are slowly dissolving into a mythical figure over the long period of years that have elapsed since two weeks ago, I will tell you about myself: I am lonesome… Life is difficult. There are so many problems. 1. The problem of how to…

amaliachimera:

by lizzynewm

maddieonthings:

Phoenix, AZ

anthropologie:

Americans tend to place a premium on overseas travel—it’s as though you haven’t actually been anywhere until you’ve crossed an ocean. But there is something important, exciting and nearly patriotic about the American road trip which cannot be overlooked. Until you can explore the country yourself, keep an eye on One Trip Pass—they’re exploring it for all of us.

Via: One Trip Pass

awritersruminations:

Charles Schenk