artchipel:

Augusto Esquivel - Cube & Balloons. Sewing Buttons and Monofilament

Men judge us
by our broad
hips and forget
their birthplace.

After your grandmother’s
wedding ring
slides off your finger
and down the kitchen drain.

After your sister finally
unlocks her mouth. Tells you
what happened the night
you didn’t pick up the phone.

After that party
your freshman year of college
when you drank all the vodka
and then threw yourself at that boy
who was so not into you.

After the picture frames,
the wine glass,
and your vows
lay broken on the floor.

After you drop out of college.

After your mother tells you
not to come home anymore.

After you accept that your father
and the man you love
have the same brown sugar eyes.

After it has been two years,
and you’re still not sure
you love him.

After it has been four years,
and you’re still not sure
you love him.

After you pull your under wear
from the dark curves
of a stranger’s sheets
and leave
without saying good-bye.

After you, sobbing,
confess what you have done
and he does not forgive you.

There is shame.
There is fear.
And there is this dizzying
freedom.

poetsandwriters:

Robert D. Richardson on Ralph Waldo Emerson, from First We Read, Then We Write: Emerson on the Creative Process.

poetsandwriters:

Robert D. Richardson on Ralph Waldo Emerson, from First We Read, Then We Write: Emerson on the Creative Process.

christopherlovell:

Twin Peaks Artwork by Christopher Lovell

christopherlovell:

Twin Peaks Artwork by Christopher Lovell

I know now that I was never the destination. I am the winter-bleached grass you must cross to get somewhere brighter. Somewhere better. Somewhere not so empty and sad.

besociallyaware said: I've been going to poetry slams recently in Bryan, Tx. It's very inspiring. I've written some poems, but I lack the public speaking ability to actually deliver them. Any suggestions?

find a mirror. a friend. a complete stranger. talk to walls or to a puppy or to yourself. accept the nerves and the adrenaline and never forget to breathe. there are few things more terrifying or cathartic or rewarding than bearing your honesty on stage. remember that if you try it once and hate it that you never have to do it again. that you don’t even have to do it once if you don’t really want to - but, if you are asking about it online, i know at least some percentage of you really wants to, which makes it worth the calculated risk. 

He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.

What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.

I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.

I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.

It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.

It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.

coaptowicz:

englishistheartofbullshit:

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

From her book, Everything is Everything (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010)

coaptowicz:

englishistheartofbullshit:

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

From her book, Everything is Everything (Write Bloody Publishing, 2010)

(Source: northernocean)