Another song that’s on my mp3 player at the moment, “Words” by the poetic and beautiful Lucinda Williams.
I would rather suffer in sweet silent solitude
Deathly defiant from drowning out
Filthy sounds stumbling ugly and crude
Between the lips of your beautiful mouth
Deep down within me words move in phrases
Frozen and still ’til they decide
To melt and drip over the pagers
Until that moment they live inside
My words enjoy the feel of the paper
Better than mingling with your consonants
Once they get going they never waver
And they slip in between your if, ands, and buts
When my words are hiding between the lines
Then I’m afraid they won’t hear me call
What if they fail me without a sign
What if they hardly surface at all
Screaming and throwing your weight around
My words choose knowledge over politics
You can’t kill my words, they know no bounds
My words are strong and they don’t make me sick
They still remain my only companion
Loyal and true to the very end
They’ll never ever completely abandon
Ever give up the paper and the pen
Been listening to this non-stop since clicking on this Abagond post.
god, are you a cloud
small vaporous wonder
lightly drifting thought
release as you rise
the great abyss
how do you make deserts
by uprooting trees
for most impossible life
the rich biosphere
carrying crystals of salt
the miracle of life
amidst a dry ocean sand
or the unthinkable
porous magma ocean under land
“Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map.
Why, I ask myself, shouldn’t the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?
Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead. So to me it seems possible that cholera, tuberculosis and cancer are the celestial means of locomotion. Just as steamboats, buses and railways are the terrestrial means.
To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot.”
— Vincent Van Gogh, as quoted in Roger Ebert’s memoir Life Itself.
I will no longer
prevent you from being offended,
cater to an imaginary reader,
make edible art
progress cannot be invisible theory
made in secret labs
no -- sometimes that which
your face is necessary
what must change.