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Exile Oct 18th, 2007 3:44:07 pm - Subscribe
Mood |

It’s like in your chest there’s a magnet, a magnet not for metal but
for a substance not available on this planet. So that it is constantly
pulling -angular little shocks like in the cartoons - at something it
will never draw close. Must be where they got the expression
aching for something. Because it is a kind of ache. To want something
and want something and. After a while you begin to feel intimate
with the missing part. You begin to feel it’s natural not to feel
pleased or satisfied. You look for houses in dead ends to live in.

And the heart keeps pace with it. You begin to miss everything.
All things past. You begin to feel as though you finally caught up
with them all: the perfume of night within a particular season, the
cardinal’s call from the tree by your window in an old house. You
put words to the tune: I want so much, I want so much, I want, I want,
I want, I want.
A familiar neighborhood and how it felt to walk the
streets down their middles because it is so early no cars are out.
Views -of things, from things.

All those times that almost did it for you are here now for your
birthday, crowding their pointed faces around you for the
photograph. You invite them onto the train -the same train you’ve
been on as you’ve seen them pass by. You help them with the small
bags they carry, grabbing some by their elbows to steady them up
the steps. But you stay on the platform and wave to them this time.
The train’s windows are all busy with the colors they’re wearing.
You wave and wave in order not to let them know.

-Aleida Rodríguez

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Another, sans title Oct 18th, 2007 11:43:31 am - Subscribe
Mood |

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I have this problem titling photographs Oct 17th, 2007 9:35:31 pm - Subscribe
Mood |

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Song of the Open Road Oct 17th, 2007 9:18:18 pm - Subscribe
Mood |

The earth expanding right hand and left hand,
The picture alive, every part in its best light,
The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted,
The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road.

O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me, Do not leave me?
Do you say, Venture not? If you leave me, you are lost?
Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well-beaten and undenied—adhere to me?

O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you;
You express me better than I can express myself;
You shall be more to me than my poem.

I think heroic deeds were all conceiv’d in the open air, and all great poems also;
I think I could stop here myself, and do miracles;
(My judgments, thoughts, I henceforth try by the open air, the road; )
I think whatever I shall meet on the road I shall like, and whoever beholds me shall like me;
I think whoever I see must be happy.

- excerpt from "Song of the open road," Walt Whitman

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Vertical Hold Jul 6th, 2007 9:45:09 am - Subscribe
Mood |

When in even our recent histories
we ask ourselves how it is we have arrived
here where the snow
just goes on like this forever
beneath a series of skies that can’t,
plain glass stained only by what we see
through it, the seeing stopped only
by the reflections staring back.
These storms are never as beautiful
as their afterwards are,
echoes always over there,
a car wash hunched lonely in the snow,
a jacket hung from the hook
like every part of us that’s forever given up.
The stars have names
for the patterns we form too,
for those footprints in the snow,
for skyscraper warning beacons
electrocuting the cloud deck,
or the way that woman’s hair
moves back from her face
as the train approaches
in the same way a windsock
is forever trying to tell us
just this one thing about what we’re up against,
amnesia, and then whatever
is the opposite of amnesia, we forget.
Today is for recycling, tomorrow for trash.
A hawk is in our cloud.
A wind blows a cloud in our sky above home.
An yellow indefatigable light.
Alone, the snow is turning to water.
Together, that water makes the sea.

- Dobby Gibson

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