Clawfoot

wildflowerveins:

Poem for boy with all his baby teeth in a ring box under his bed. Poem for boy with bee stingers in his palm, for broken neck birds, too many pink scars on his shoulders. Poem for boy nailing our scarecrow to the tree out back. Poem for boy, bloodless hands, dead father, weighed down branches, steady. Poem for riverbank eulogy, poem for the house on fire, for the empty bedrooms, for the baby teeth, for his scratched out face, for the wheat I pulled to make that scarecrow whole. Poem for boy, for husk, for knotted rope, and a white bird, all quiet, all burned. 

A final love letter to a nerd

nailbitings:

In the abrupt,
Bizarrely time warped
And amusingly brief two months I’ve known you,
You have spent a total of 172 hours talking to me about
Comic books
Superheroes
And videogames.
Approximately.
Of these three topics, I know close to nothing, but every minute has been a gem
Because for every single passion someone has deemed childish, you laugh them down with your resilient self-acceptance
And I am constantly astonished by your ability to squeal over a Howard the duck reference, memorize all of the possible AUs and origin stories for most marvel comics and boast a knowledge of indie video game developers that I cannot fathom, while simultaneously being
the most mature man I’ve ever met.
You smile, and with that self-parodying regionalism of the land of the out of the closet nerd, you say “I know, but I resent the connotation that comic books are for children.”
Right afterward you remind me that my love does not define me
You never let me make it all about us because love isn’t about the verb
It’s about being worth loving
And letting one awesome person find another
And telling me this, knowing full well and with no less brutality than I inflict on myself when I think about leaving this place, that my awesome person will probably be someone else
Love is believing in another person
Not because you feel like you have to,
But because they’re so damn cool
And the thing about videogames and comics
Is that they’re not for kids
They’re for people who believe in things
They’re for people who give a shit about something
I fell in love with you for your self acceptance
But I stay in love with you for your belief in the rest of the planet
Regardless of the pain and suffering you acknowledge on a daily basis
You accept imperfection because you believe that it’s the first level of the game
You trust the universe because we live in a world of infinite universes
And this is the one you’re in
And this is the one I’m in
And, with the odds always against us, we’re here together
And I’m listening to you rant again
And I love you for it.

Porchlights

Have you ever been to one of those parties
where the air seems like it’s moving slow
it’s heavy, it’s weighted down with conversation
we’re all in relative orbit of each other,
we are drunk, and like so many comets
we are in awe of each other’s relative brilliance.

you’re framed in the doorway.
you are the negative space
between the apertures of the snapping porch lights
on a warm summer night
you can see the dust motes in the air,
settling on your shoulders,
mud outlining your shoes,
faded and dusty.

A little bit like us, you know-
faded
and dusty.

cigarette balanced precariously on your fingertips
as if you were waiting for death to fall onto your teeth unannounced.
take a swan dive into your lungs.
You grab at life like an addict- we both do-
nebulous nights in freefall.
drinking too much and thinking very, very little
of ourselves at 3am
on a porch, just waiting for the next big something.

These are the bad days.
These are the days when you don’t know whether it’s worth
rolling over on your side in the morning
to see if it’s bright outside
as if you can see anything out the window
other than the opposing building,
staring down and choking sunlight
all unreflective and gray
and tired.

three years out of high school, less than twenty five miles from birth
soaring ever outward, but apathy- the centripetal force
illogically pulling us back to the same place.
We don’t really know where we’re going
but it’s not here.

porchlight buzzing,
mosquitos buzzing,
conversations buzzing
just out of earshot
I hate the taste of tobacco on my lips
and my cigarette’s half gone
and I hate the taste of tobacco on my lips
and you look at me
like I know what I’m doing.
Like I’m not just as afraid
as you
Like I don’t rise every morning with my feelings in my throat like bile
Like my fingernails aren’t bitten down constantly
Like I know what I’m doing

Like my heart hasn’t grown fungi
sprouted down and planted shallow roots into my epicardium
blood vessels expanding under the weight of increased presence
and forcing out the dreams I used to have
suffocating my blood vessels and leeching something from me
holding me down, watching my every move
a constant companion, spreading vines over my bones
calcifying my nervous system
and I just want to be okay again.

you ask me if I’d like to go inside
and i have to strain to hear you through the groves of dark woodlands
around my head

just another minute out here.
I still have a lighter in my hand
and I am going to start a forest fire,
and I hope I will not have to again.

johndarnielle:

elucubrare:

Ellen Hinsey

wow

johndarnielle:

elucubrare:

Ellen Hinsey

wow

prelude to a fall

I call you papercut girl
because you’ve drawn blood from me more times than i remember
but only if i’m careless with my hands.
Your parents raised you this way, to be razor sharp
if you don’t trust someone
and soft white if you do.

I call you spiderwebs
because it’s been so long
and I still find traces of you in my hair.
You are stronger than your gossamer would lead you to believe
they’ll pattern steel after you,
they’ll raise bridges with your designs
I want to tell you this because I want you to remember:
you are going to shine after the rain ends.
They will write theses about your complexity
and poetry about your beauty.

Falling in love with you is a cliffside.
It all becomes a fearful thing
it’s a chasm, and we’re holding hands and walking off the edge
you and me, spiderwebs,
just one long fall.

If we’re lucky, we’ll see the bottom coming
and our hearts will erupt from our backs like parachutes
and let our crash be easy
and let our wounds be slight
and let us walk away without feeling like we had to.

So let me hold you now, papercut.
Rest your head on my chest and sink your breath onto my rib-bones
lay heavy on me, tangle me up
let me pour my words onto your skin
so when another sees in you what I did
I will have pressed into you imprints of my handwriting
and you can never truly erase that
and you will not want to,
because wrinkles give things texture.
and I want you to remember when you were my papercut
and never forget why I called you spiderwebs
and as we lay on my bed, sheets all lily-white,
I will promise that I won’t either.

Your New Captain America Is Sam Wilson

nobloodforpizza:

sonofbaldwin:

I don’t know how I feel about this.

In theory, I like Sam Wilson as the Falcon even if I never liked his sidekick-ass, “Is we sick, boss?” relationship to Captain America.

Well now, for a temporary moment I’m sure, he’s going to actually *be* Captain America.

The ONLY thing that might be interesting to me about this experiment is whether or not the internal politics of the role change because a black man now wears the costume. I’m interested in how white people will react to the black person adorned in the American flag. I’m interested in knowing if the creators of this series imagine that white men and black men have identical notions about the country, democracy, white supremacy, and patriarchy.

In other words, I’m wondering if this will be a Black Captain America or a Captain America in Blackface.

For the record, there have been a couple Black Caps before this- Isaiah Bradley, a black WWII soldier, was retconned into being the ‘first Captain America’ in Captain America: Truth, and his nephew Elijah Bradley took the name Patriot when he was a member of Young Avengers (okay, not Cap, but close). 

Falcon’s relationship with Cap is definitely a one with some contentious (racial) undertones, but I’m cautiously excited for this. Marvel has been doing some very interesting stuff with representation recently, and none of it has pissed me off yet.

(via videodante)

nailbitings:

I love breakfasts alone. Especially in diners.
Eating breakfast with friends is a treat, of course. When I think of one of my favorite breakfasts, I think of being ten, making an egg scramble for nine sleeping guests with my godmother in Newport, Oregon. Mary and I chopped the vegetables diligently, and on tip toes and with watchful eyes I soaked in the steps, the rituals of making eggs. I learned. I wish I could say I learned how to make eggs from my mother, but that’s not true.
Another favorite breakfast was served just a few weeks ago: after a party, Dante and I made eggs, bacon and potatoes for our hungover friends. Working in a kitchen with the man you love is such a quiet kind of happiness, an egalitarian performance for the people who have accepted your relationship with open arms. That will always be one of the good moments of us.
The first time a man made me breakfast, I woke up sad and scared. An evening of too many joints and suffocating self-doubt hadn’t yet sloughed off my skin, and as I cautiously walked to the kitchen- he lived in a 26th-floor apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out over a snowy newton, mass- Justin was making me eggs, fried, on toast with avocado and cheese. He made us breakfast with that meditative smile, as if he were letting me see his private moments, his solitary bliss, his quiet mornings of egg on toast. We sat at his cheap kitchen table and ate in silence- the first moment I thought to myself, “maybe this guy cares about me after all.”
Justin and I did not end well, but when I feel sad, I still make eggs on toast. I hope he thinks of me sometimes, in those solitary mornings, and doesn’t feel resentment. I hope he knows that I keep his eggs on toast at the table, even now.
But I love breakfasts spent alone, because it gives me a chance to taste the silence in cups of coffee, in sausage gravy like glue, in egg scrambles made for one. I know I have many more solitary breakfasts left, and that doesn’t make me sad anymore. I can walk into quiet diners with orange lightbulbs and waitresses with whisps of strawberry jam hair, watch families love one another over sausage links and wheat toast, and savor the time I can spend with myself.

AFFIRMATION POEM

I believe in human error!
I believe that the eternally shifting
gears of the great machinery of mankind
are not always perfect.

I believe in heartbreak
I believe in true love
that crashes against skin and skin
love that breaks like waves
on the cliffside
I believe in human erosion!

I believe in human patchwork!
and fixes!
in threadwork! and mattresses!
strewn across the landscape
crash-pads for crash-landings
crashing down on cliffsides
I believe in human erosion.

I believe in electric poetry
ejected from fingers and throats
rejected from interiors where they cannot stand
charged from human bodies onto recorded media
us, the mediums of current
electric wires shot through with charged words.
I believe in electric poetry.

I believe in human error!
I believe we’ll land on the moon someday
but this time, we’ll put up a house.
I believe in lunar landings
and the possibilities afforded to us by anarchistic
utopian and idealistic, patterns
of sociological movement.
I believe in anarchy. I believe in utopia,
and I believe they are twin and lovers
both in the field of political thought
and in the the bedroom.

I believe we’re better than this!
I believe the children of humanity will not be remembered by age
but by contribution
and that the contribution of creating something
is on par with and level to
maintaining something
and making it better.

I believe in human error!
I believe we make mistakes!
I believe we’re still making mistakes
every day
I believe we can do better.
I believe in getting better.

I believe we are all ghosts rising out of bodies!
I believe that out of body
we might see each other better
like the first time you put on glasses in the morning
and hallelujah, I can see
and you see someone else.
I believe we are all ghosts rising out of bodies.

I believe in talking to each other.
I believe in children talking
and that one day I will have my own that I can talk back to
running around and making a mess of things
and someone will be there to help me with that
I believe in hoping for the future.

I believe in human error.
I believe that sometimes you think someone is all you need
and that someone turns out to be all someone needs
it’s just not you
and sometimes, you have to make peace with that.
no matter how much it pains you, because god damn it
I believe in human error.

I believe in technology.
I believe we can make things that do things
better than we ever did-
in rocket fuel and robotics
and the crystalline grids of computer processors
working hot and heavy under covers
on equations, like lovesick math professors.
I believe in technology!

I believe in eternal life.
I believe in making beauty that goes on
and keeps giving, in communities sustained by
cooperation and mutuality
I believe in getting better.
I believe in doing better.

I believe the the human spirit
is beyond cage and comfort
but rises out, touches heavenly bodies
both on earth and beyond her
and that one day, I believe,
this poem won’t be just hopeful,
it’ll be fulfilled.

I beat Wolfenstein TNO

video-gamesman:

Most of my experience with this game has been with me being consistently surprised by how much fun I was having. The atmosphere is very well done, the characters are surprisingly interesting (despite BJ Blazkowicz being possibly the most bland character in the whole world, at least on paper), and…

I wrote a big thing on a video game, take a look at it if you want to read me ranting about a video game

fallenwest:

autopsynecropsy:

crimesandkillers:

Faces of school shooters

After reading some of the comments on my original ‘Faces of school shooters’ post, I thought I should say this…not ALL school shooters are white males. The main point of putting this photo set together was so people would see that a school shooter can be ANYONE. The comments on the ‘Faces of school shooters’ photo set are disgusting. Comments such as ‘White privilege’, well, where is it? They got the same sentence as any other person would.  Also, comments such as ‘Fuckin white people’ and it has been reblogged by blogs with are called ‘thisiswhiteculture’, ‘whitepeoplesaidwhat’, ‘murderwhitepeople’, ‘whitepeoplestealingculture’, ‘whiteguiltconfessions’ etc. Would this be OK if it was a person of any other colour? I think not. So why is it OK if it’s white people? Racism does work both ways

Because American society is quick to label black on black crime, quick to notice that more blacks are convicted than whites (although they usually incorrectly assume it’s because blacks commit more crimes), and quick to label any violent crime by a person of middle eastern descent as terrorism. In short, American society loves to racialize crime, except when it’s white people in question. So some people seize on the fact that the stereotypical school shooter is white for a sense of relief.

"A cornered mouse may bite a cat, this does not reclassify a mouse as predator and a cat as prey" (thanks emberglass). 

If the people who you’re describing believe that only white people can or do commit mass shootings, or even if they just associate mass shootings with white people, you’re right, they are being racially prejudiced. According to the first definition of racism in most major dictionaries, they are being racist. The problem with that is that it’s a simplistic and uninformed view of what racism is in american society. It is much more damaging for white people to associate crime with minorities than it is for minorities to associate crime with white people, because white people are in power, so to speak. We hold more positions as judges, prosecutors, policemen and women, and as lawmakers. 

Finally, you claim that “They got the same sentence as any other person would.” This may be true for the specific black person you showed a picture of compared to the specific white people you showed pictures of. I do not know. I very much doubt, however, that it’s true when you look at all the cases. And I know it’s not true when you look at all crimes.

overview of racism in the criminal justice system:

http://urbanpoverty.qwriting.qc.cuny.edu/files/2011/01/Ronald-Weich-and-Carlos-Angulo-Racial-Disparities-in-the-American-Criminal-Justice-System.pdf

overrepresentation of youth of color in justice system (I think, I haven’t read these in a bit):

http://www.nccdglobal.org/sites/default/files/publication_pdf/justice-for-some.pdf

Useful recommended reading list:

http://artsandsciences.virginia.edu/woodson/symposium/

relevant news article:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/therootdc/post/state-of-equality-and-justice-in-america-the-presumption-of-guilt/2013/05/17/49a51a42-bf07-11e2-89c9-3be8095fe767_blog.html

is ‘black culture’ to blame?

http://crs.sagepub.com/content/34/2/213.abstract

oh yeah reminder

if you were unaware, i have another blog that isn’t just poetry and you can look at it here

john darnielle of the Mountain Goats hugged me and told me that he loved me tonight at his show

Affirmation Poem

I believe in human error
I believe that the eternally shifting
gears of the great machinery of mankind
are not always perfect

I believe in heartbreak
I believe in true love
that crashes against skin and skin
love that breaks like waves
on the cliffside
I believe in human erosion

I believe in human patchwork
and fixes
in threadwork and matresses
strewn across the landscape
crash-pads for crash-landings
crashing down on cliffsides
I believe in human erosion.

I believe in electric poetry
ejected from fingers and throats
rejected from interiors where they cannot stand
charged from human bodies onto recorded media
us, the mediums of current
electric wires shot through with charged words.
I believe in electric poetry.

I believe in human error.
I believe we’ll land on the moon someday
but this time, we’ll put up a house.
I believe in lunar landings
and the possibilities afforded to us by anarchistic
utopian and idealistic, patterns
of sociological movement.
I believe in anarchy. I believe in utopia,
and I believe they are twin and lovers
both in the field of political thought
and in the the bedroom.

I believe we’re better than this
I believe the children of humanity will not be remembered by age
but by contribution
and that the contribution of creating something
is on par with and level to
maintaining something
and making it better.

I believe in human error.
I believe we make mistakes.
I believe we’re still making mistakes
every day
I believe we can do better.
I believe in getting better.

I believe we are all ghosts rising out of bodies
I believe that out of body
we might see each other better
like the first time you put on glasses in the morning
and hallelujah, I can see
and you see someone else.
I believe we are all ghosts rising out of bodies.

I believe in talking to each other.
I believe in children talking
and that one day I will have my own that I can talk back to
running around and making a mess of things
and someone will be there to help me with that
I believe in hoping for the future.

I believe in human error.
I believe that sometimes you think someone is all you need
and that someone turns out to be all someone needs
it’s just not you
and sometimes, you have to make peace with that.
no matter how much it pains you, because god damn it
I believe in human error.

I believe in technology.
I believe we can make things that do things
better than we ever did
in rocket fuel and robotics
and the crystalline grids of computer processors
working hot and heavy under covers
on equations, like lovesick math professors.
I believe in technology.

I believe in eternal life.
I believe in making beauty that goes on
and keeps giving, in communities sustained by
cooperation and mutuality
I believe in getting better.
I believe in doing better.

I believe the the human spirit
is beyond cage and comfort
but rises out, touches heavenly bodies
both on earth and beyond her
and that one day, I believe,
this poem won’t be just hopeful,
it’ll be fulfilled.

"

you may write me down in history
with your bitter, twisted lies,
you may trod me in the very dirt
but still, like dust, i’ll rise.

does my sassiness upset you?
why are you beset with gloom?
‘cause i walk like i’ve got oil wells
pumping in my living room.

just like moons and like suns,
with the certainty of tides,
just like hopes springing high,
still i’ll rise.

did you want to see me broken?
bowed head and lowered eyes?
shoulders falling down like teardrops,
weakened by my soulful cries.

does my haughtiness offend you?
don’t you take it awful hard
‘cause i laugh like i’ve got gold mines
diggin’ in my own back yard.

you may shoot me with your words,
you may cut me with your eyes,
you may kill me with your hatefulness,
but still, like air, i’ll rise.

does my sexiness upset you?
does it come as a surprise
that i dance like i’ve got diamonds
at the meeting of my thighs?

out of the huts of history’s shame
i rise
up from a past that’s rooted in pain
i rise
i’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
welling and swelling i bear in the tide.

leaving behind nights of terror and fear
i rise
into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
i rise
bringing the gifts my ancestors gave,
i am the dream and the hope of the slave.
i rise
i rise
i rise.

"

still i rise, maya angelou (via 8e888e)

(Source: lzbth, via plantaplanta)

"I chuckled nervously.
Of course I wanted to fuck you.
Like brides marching down the aisle
or bands march down boulevards.
And I also wanted to drink shitty wine
with you after eating corn dogs
and forget what time meant as we
spent dollars and hours on nights
together wrapped in bed or in words
or in blankets or in adventures.

It was later when I realized
I wanted to love you that
I wanted to breakfast with you
and count clouds with you when the sun shone.
"

Alex Dang! (via wordsoftakumi)

(via wordsoftakumi)