the ugly earring

ug‧ly [uhg-lee] offensive to the sense of beauty; displeasing in appearance

every bed more /narrow

Delacroix Unmade Bed

after he died
what really happened is
she watched the days
bundle into thousands,
watched every act become
the history of others,
every bed more
but even as the eyes of lovers
strained toward the milky young
she walked away
from the hole in the ground
deciding to live.       and she lived.

image: Eugène Delacroix (1798-1863)

poem: she lived by lucille clifton.

i’m just killing time

Face down in the dust… I’ll kiss no other lips
A lifetime of nothing, condemned without you

that i do not lose you.

IMG_5664walt whitman

love comes on a wing

Across the endless wilderness where all the beasts bow down their heads.
Darling I will never rest till I am by your side.

what has changed

graciela-iturbide_05The path ended here at the farm. She was a work horse, having long abandoned the primp and prep of her past. She let her hair grow long and gray, she stopped plucking her eyebrows, and all her fancy dresses and designer shoes were sold – replaced by an old pair of red ropers, denim shirts and her favorite pair of jeans. When she saw the older version of herself in the mirror – the brownness of her skin, the sunspots, the freckles, the lines on her face – the only dislike was how her nose was transforming into her father’s.

image: Mujer Ángel, Desierto de Sonora, Mexico – Angel Woman, Sonora Desert, Mexico


heart of the country

Want a horse, i got a sheep,
I’m gonna get me a good night’s sleep,
Livin’ in a home in the heart of the country.

I’m gonna move, i’m gonna go,
Gonna tell ev’ryone i know, oo-oo-oo
In the heart of the country.

love song


I fancied you’d return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.

image: david hurn, 1979 via nearness of distance
poem: mad girl’s love song, sylvia plath

forget yourself a few times and see where it gets you

So, Sister, forget yourself a few times and see where it gets you:
Up the creek, alone with your talent, sans everything else.
You can wait for the menopause, and catch up on your reading.
So primp, preen, prink, pluck, and prize your flesh,
All posturings! All ravishment! All sensibility!
Meanwhile, have you used your mind today?
What pomegranate raised you from the dead,
Springing, full-grown, from your own head, Athena?

image: here


three sisters

The Three Sisters (1917). Henri Matisse


still / is.

photo (8)

Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense


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