friday night at cafe dang
the fire breather shared a drink
with me at the traveling
bar illegally parked in the lot
of the stater brothers supermarket
at the edge of little saigon.
i wanted to sing
but don’t have a voice,
i wanted to dance
but i have no legs, as you
can see, said he.
what’s the secret to your skill?
i asked. he swallowed a shot
rolled off
his chair and stared at the face
of the god.
Thank You
in a fireball voice,
Thank You.
for what?
i said.
buy me a drink
& i’ll tell you.
when the glasses outnumbered
my fingers
he spit fire in my face
& i understood.
Blurt: I think the idea is that every person has to live for his or her own...
I think the idea is that every person has to live for his or her own life and then make the choice to share it with other people. You can’t just sit there and put everybody’s lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love. You just can’t. You have to do things. I’m going to do what I want to…
Word.
some of the noise
i remember when it was still easy
to believe in something i couldn’t see
because i knew the secret
was to trust the feeling,
to let go of the whispered
words in my head and sink
into the silver lined copper tub
of my dreams.
watch out for the debris
racing at different
paces in orbit around
my brain,
those single searing thoughts
and images that
by themselves carry the force
of 15 billion megatons
of pure nuclear hatred,
or jelly beans falling
out of the sky.
the self sometimes
cannot accept when the shell
zooms past its expiration date
and signs of unfreshness
start showing their broken teeth,
like the zigzag incisors worn
by Carlos the gardener,
and when in denial
the self stresses out its shell
and the cracks come quickly
with vengeance.
this is when the voices
begin sprinting
in the mind.
this is when the stomach
starts to float
zero gravity free fall muth
a fucka
the eyes squeeze shut squeeze
out tears
because the voices are all so loud
and fast
and they’re making you naseous
and it only hurts
more when you jam
your fingers into your ears,
the nails rip little
gaps in important walls
but maybe that’ll let out
some of the noise,
and maybe i’ll light
this joint already
and pass it to you, waiting
to dive into the first
smoke-O you blow.
i do da liking dis wun
(Source: soulfulandtrue, via eatclit0ris)
(via frickyeah1990s)
whisperin life into her hands
Oldie
Photography: Matt Christie
Captured by Aaron Hawks
She discovered one day that she could turn thoughts —- those kaleidoscopic bursts of multicolored electricity splashing along the shores of her brain —- into flesh and blood. An image appears in her brain and she focuses on it until the psychic pressure crushes it into dreamdust.
She pinches it and packs it in the bowl.
It sparkles like when the sun laughs across a morning field.