it is enough, kafka said, that the arrow fit exactly into the wound that it makes.
they came out with Jeff Buckley's Grace, they legacy edition. *drools* I love love love me some jeff buckley. so hauntingly beautiful and brilliant. must go buy.
I've been reading Linda Gregg(who is a freaking genius poet) and trying to write poetry for class and all i've succeeded in doing is making myself sleepy. I think I will just get up early and write.
randomly good lines from Linda Gregg's collection of poetry called things and flesh:
We leave and leave into the questing
you might say this is a leftover life i am living./I know some Ezra Pound by heart.
all things we see are the shapes death makes
feeling is not in the things, but in us
it was love as the engine that kept her awake, something striding across the waves in the dark.
i came here exhausted in my heart and I will go back the same way
they listen to the wind in dry grass. they know what is beautiful survives in those who contain the farthest place.
stories that always had to do with power and hints of the darkness in sex. me caring so little. grateful for their desire, but indifferent.
the shape of love is a scattering.
"each day," she thinks later, "I am less and less part of the world, even thought I live closer to it than ever."
and I saved the best for last: What poetry demands is worse than nakedness, and less knowable.
I've been reading Linda Gregg(who is a freaking genius poet) and trying to write poetry for class and all i've succeeded in doing is making myself sleepy. I think I will just get up early and write.
randomly good lines from Linda Gregg's collection of poetry called things and flesh:
We leave and leave into the questing
you might say this is a leftover life i am living./I know some Ezra Pound by heart.
all things we see are the shapes death makes
feeling is not in the things, but in us
it was love as the engine that kept her awake, something striding across the waves in the dark.
i came here exhausted in my heart and I will go back the same way
they listen to the wind in dry grass. they know what is beautiful survives in those who contain the farthest place.
stories that always had to do with power and hints of the darkness in sex. me caring so little. grateful for their desire, but indifferent.
the shape of love is a scattering.
"each day," she thinks later, "I am less and less part of the world, even thought I live closer to it than ever."
and I saved the best for last: What poetry demands is worse than nakedness, and less knowable.