Speak softly.

Reblogged from thetargetbird


Mysteries are negotiations with the spaces
that don’t neatly for into ourselves — we are
sometimes hungry as the pale fog just before
sunrise, massively sober in the absence
of landscape to orient its proper place against
our lips. Surely we are trying our best to be
happy in our unsafe abundances asserting
themselves into unfinished sacrifices,
with a will focused on the paranoia of differential
details separating our combined light from the cells
that absorb them. The morning feels like calamity
until we’re sprawled in flickering sunlight.

Reblogged from thetargetbird


Much of the time we’re diminishing
the difference between you and me,
each day is a new posture to try, so sleep
might not be a necessity in future years -
we’ll live in the pines and swallow the stain
glass sky and kiss away the vertigo
induced by a casually dropped shoe.
The trees beam around us like a moon,
it’s wise to go without focusing on the smaller
details sometimes and instead listen
to what is increasingly true: the dream
of how to become the whole damn forest.

Reblogged from opalsinearrings


Crashingly, Lia Melia

(Source: liamelia.com)

Reblogged from anastasiadualla

Permanent marker installations by Heike Weber.

(Source: mcmillianfurlow)

Reblogged from julianunes

Signs without Signification - Jeff Brouws

(Source: nyctaeus)

Reblogged from danieltoumine


Get nautical, dipped in chrome,
and knock over all the displays.
Flank with mirror shards.

No one wants to die
in a polo.

- @DanielToumine

Reblogged from thetargetbird


The heart just hangs there
like a pause, I inhale its smolder
until I am a cloud. We arrive
home priceless, laughing at the thought
of ever losing someone or getting lost.
We lazily toed the Pacific, speaking
in whispers of golden orange, knowing
the history that hadn’t happened yet,
the black ocean sounded like a desert from
where we stood at a distance from the stars
and waved, their medieval bulk shooting
light in dynamite specks, to their casual,
meaningless preciousness, feeling like we’re
rushing toward them backwards, close enough
to smell their bright peaceful sleep.

Willow Poem

Reblogged from brokencircadian


It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river —
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.

William Carlos Williams

(Source: poemhunter.com)

Reblogged from thetargetbird


All our wishes made us thirsty,
ready to risk the rain in an already
drenched summer and we’re distracted
by radicals: minutes incessantly reminding
us that we’re at the edge of where we can
still measure the increments of desire.

We welcome the morning informally,
thrilled to find ourselves: two halves
close to being reversed, leaving other
broken states in a house of ecstasy.

Reblogged from raisethecurve


i see you,
plain white sheets painted
in blackest ink: question marks
from your head down.

i see you, duochrome
tie-dyed curiosity and henna’d palms,
beginning the great expanse sure as sin
that answers, like armor, cannot breathe.