HEAVEN is, apparently, ORANGE.

HEAVEN is, apparently, ORANGE.

(via sehomes)

lookoutbooks:

from When All the World is Old, from Lookout Books
Type treatment by Eric Tran, Lookout intern

lookoutbooks:

from When All the World is Old, from Lookout Books

Type treatment by Eric Tran, Lookout intern

poldberg:

While there is a lot of appropriate rage about Ferguson right now, the killing of John Crawford, III is getting less attention than it deserves. I put Shaun King’s tweets and history lesson on the matter in chronological order for easier consumption.

Links:

Autopsy and video show John Crawford shot from behind in Wal-Mart

Witness in murder of John Crawford changes story

You really should be following Shaun King on Twitter.

(via delisile)

FALL POETRY EXTRAVAGANZA!

where I will read vicious poetry* about love & trauma while doused in Cleopatra eyeliner: 

UPCOMING SHOWS**:

10/3:  Philly Pigeon Poetry Slam

PhilaMOCA

531 N. 12th Street

Philly, PA 19123

$15 Reserved | $10 at DoorWorkshop: 7-8| Doors:8:30 / Show 9pm Sharp| All ages 

10/7: Urbana Poetry Slam 

 The Red Room @ THE DL LOUNGE

95 Delancey at Ludlow

New York, NY 

7PM / $8 (6:30 sign up for Open Mic or Open Slam) 

10/17: COUPLET 3rd Anniversary Reading

The Delancey

168 Delancey St.

New York, NY 10002 

7PM - 10PM 

10/20: Loser Slam  

Two River Theatre Company

21 Bridge Avenue

Red Bank, NJ 07701 

7PM 

10/23 - 10/27: Dodge Poetry Festival, Newark, NJ  

go to http://www.dodgepoetry.org/ for schedule & ticket information  

10/29: Greenlight Bookstore

Greenlight Bookstore

686 Fulton Street

Brooklyn, NY

DETAILS TO COME

* Until further notice, my first book, PINK ELEPHANT, will only be available for purchase directly from me at readings. It is currently out-of-print as I and my publishers work to make it BETTER. Think “special edition.” XOXOXO, r. 
  


** Carol, YOU ARE NOT INVITED. If you come, I will autograph your chest with my knife.

 

Danez Smith - “Today”

"Today I am grateful. Today the diagnosis does not own me."


Danez Smith, performing during prelims at the 2014 National Poetry Slam. Subscribe to Button on YouTube!

LOVE LOVE LOVE 

(Source: buttonpoetry)

galagalactic:

I genuflect at Mass, stealing fleeting glances of my sons’ hands in prayer—tender, unburdened by veins or violence, unscathed. I redirected my attention, prayed that whoever feared their black bodies would soon unlearn myth and space and threat. Hopeful, in the meantime, as every lukewarm Catholic tends, that God will keep his children free from danger. Until, of course, the priest’s strange homily reminded of Divinity’s less-than-stellar record: “God’s own son suffered and died. Let us pray.”

(Source: aireaonce)

hjlaulis:

So, just remembered that this happened almost a year ago. Still the greatest tweet I’ve ever received.

I KEEP IT CLASSY ALL THE TIMES

hjlaulis:

So, just remembered that this happened almost a year ago. Still the greatest tweet I’ve ever received.

I KEEP IT CLASSY ALL THE TIMES

Undertaker by Patricia Smith

For Floyd Williams

When a bullet enters the brain, the head explodes.
I can think of no softer warning for the mothers
who sit doubled before my desk,
knotting their smooth brown hands,
and begging, fix my boy, fix my boy.
Here’s his high school picture.
And the smirking, mildly mustachioed player
in the crinkled snapshot
looks nothing like the plastic bag of boy
stored and dated in the cold room downstairs.
In the picture, he is cocky and chiseled,
clutching the world by the balls. I know the look.
Now he is flaps of cheek,
slivers of jawbone, a surprised eye,
assorted teeth, bloody tufts of napped hair.
The building blocks of my business.

So I swallow hard, turn the photo face down
and talk numbers instead. The high price 
of miracles startles the still-young woman,
but she is prepared. I know that she has sold
everything she owns, that cousins and uncles
have emptied their empty bank accounts,
that she dreams of her baby
in tuxedoed satin, flawless in an open casket,
a cross or blood red rose tacked to his fingers,
his halo set at a cocky angle.
I write a figure on a piece of paper
and push it across to her
while her chest heaves with hoping.
she stares at the number, pulls in
a slow weepy breath: “
Jesus.”

But Jesus isn’t on this payroll. I work alone
until the dim insistence of morning,
bent over my grisly puzzle pieces, gluing,
sticking, creating a chin with a brushstroke.
I plop glass eyes into rigid sockets,
then carve eyelids from a forearm, an inner thigh.
I plump shattered skulls, and paint the skin
to suggest warmth, an impending breath. 
I reach into collapsed cavities to rescue
a tongue, an ear. Lips are never easy to recreate.

And I try not to remember the stories,
the tales of the mothers must bring me
to east their own hearts. 
Oh, they cry,
my Ronniemy Williemy Michaelmy Chico.
It was self-defense. He was on his way home,
a dark car slowed down, they must have thought
he was someone else. He stepped between
two warring gang members at a paty.
Really, he was trying to get off the streets,
trying to pull away from the crowd.
He was just trying to help a friend.
He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fix my boy; he was a good boy. Make him the way he was.

But I have explored the jagged gaps
in the boy’s body, smoothed the angry edges
of bulletholes. I have touched him in places
no mother knows, and I have birthed
his new face. I know he believed himself
invincible, that he most likely hissed
"Fuck you, man" before the bullets lifted him 
off his feet. I try not to imagine
his swagger, his lizard-lidded gaze,
his young mother screaming into the phone.

She says she will find the money, and I know
this is the truth that fuels her, forces her
to place one foot in front of the other.
Suddenly, I want to take her down 
to the chilly room, open the bag
and shake its terrible bounty onto the
gleaming steel table. I want her to see him,
to touch  him, to press her lips to the flap of cheek.
The woman needs to wither, finally, and move on.

We both jump as the phone rattles in its hook.
I pray it’s my wife, a bill collector, a wrong number.
But the wide, questioning silence on the other end
is too familiar. Another mother needing a miracle.
Another homeboy coming home.

"Read Cassandra de Alba’s poem:"

— i have an animal poem up at the nervous breakdown! (via outsidewarmafghans)