I want to say that
forgiveness keeps on
dividing, that hope
gives issue to hope,
and more, but of course I
am saying what is
said when in this dark
hallway one encounters
you, and paws and
affairs, fast lies—and you
say it back and we
blunder deeper, as would
any pair of loosed
marionettes, any couple
of cadavers cut lately
from the scaffold,
in the secluded hallways
of whatever is
holding us up now.
— Denis Johnson
It was like my whole life had a fever.
Whole acres of me were on fire.
The sun talked dirty in my ear all night.
I couldn’t drive past a wheatfield without doing it violence.
I couldn’t even look at a bridge.
I used to go out in the brush sometimes,
So far out there no one could hear me,
And just burn.
I felt all right then.
I couldn’t hurt anyone else.
I was just a pillar of fire.
It wasn’t the burning so much as the loneliness.
It wasn’t the loneliness so much as the fear of being alone.
Christ look at you pouring from the rocks.
You’re so cold you’re boiling over.
You’ve got stars in your hair.
I don’t want to be around you.
I don’t want to drink you in.
I want to walk into the heart of you
And never walk back out."
— Nico Alvarado
when you realize what you’re reading,
what’s being revealed to you, how it is not
what you expected, what you thought
you were reading, where you thought you were heading.
Then there is that incredible knowing
that surges up in you, speeding
your heart; and you swear you will keep on reading,
keep on writing until you find another not going
where you thought—and until you have taken
someone on that ride, so that they take in
their breath, so that they let out their
sigh, so that they will swear
they will not rest until they too
have taken someone the way they were taken by you."
— Kate Light
I am Green magic bitters
resting homeless like a beggar between
and my heart is sweet like sugar cube crystals.
You think that I am venomous,
visions of lusty sprites with fangs that sink
into taut skin and
leaving tiny vessels in their wake.
So you rinse and spit and floss away
pour my insides down the drain and
lock whatever might remain
in a slot beneath the floor,
for I am
too tart to swallow,
too sweet to stomach,
too much a myth to believe,
too much a burden to maintain
a solution so saturated.
— The New Yorker on ‘Girls’ Season 3 Ep1 and 2
Written and Directed by Spike Jones.