The elevator descended with a draft, chilling Ethel in all the damp spots.
No, sir! All thirteen!
Men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread.
—Richard Wright, Native Son. (via slow-delirium)
What America is, to me, is a guy doesn’t want to buy, you let him not buy, you respect his not buying. A guy has a crazy notion different from your crazy notion, you pat him on the back and say, Hey pal, nice crazy notion, let’s go have a beer. America, to me, should be shouting all the time, a bunch of shouting voices, most of them wrong, some of them nuts, but please, not just one droning glamorous reasonable voice.
—George Saunders, My Flamboyant Grandson (via deadliftpoetry)
My marriage ended in an airport long ago.
I was not wise enough to cry while looking for my car,
walking through the underground garage;
jets were roaring overhead, and if I had been wise
I would have looked up at those heavy-bellied cylinders
and seen the wheelchairs and the frightened dogs inside;
the kidneys bedded in dry ice and Styrofoam containers.
I would have known that in synagogues and churches all over town
couples were gathering like flocks of geese
getting ready to take off, while here the jets were putting down
their gear, getting ready for the jolt, the giant tires
shrieking and scraping off two
long streaks of rubber molecules,
that might have been my wife and I, screaming in our fear.
It is a matter of amusement to me now,
me staggering around that underground garage,
trying to remember the color of my vehicle,
unable to recall that I had come by cab—
eventually gathering myself and going back inside,
to get the luggage
I would be carrying for the rest of my life.
Everyone at the same time if everyone at the same time
looked up from coffee looked up from crotch looked up
if everyone at night at dawn at lunch looked up
at the black at the blue morsel sky at the congress
of clouds of stars looked up from needle from packets
of buzzing from the wedding of dollars if everyone
in Queens in Wembley if everyone in my head if everyone
looked up from electroshock from drift if everyone
threw back the appetite of the eyes threw back the village
of the head the persistence of the skull if everyone thought
I am the vanishing point I am the frontal lobe of wind
if everyone stood and raised their wings and tuned
their orchestra if the census stood the tens of
stood the billions of stood the Earth would move
the circle would move the spinning would move if everyone
at the same time opened their mouth let the wolf
of their uvula go the rivers would stare at us
again would return to our faces the expressions
they carried away to the ocean to bury in the ocean
to save in case we ever came back.
-Team Effort, Bob Hicok
Helena Almeida, inhabited Painting, 1975, acrylic on black and white photo.