I been missing you all while I’ve been with a world of doofuses
sunlight, you are
when you’re around the world feels
(but that’s only bc the world is so dumb).
being with you’s
a good heartbeat
in a stupid night,
it’s a warm spot in a
I got struck by lightening/good luck
too dumbly and by accident
to meet you.
hope is bourgeois
after spending all day at MoMA it became even more pronounced that what i might call a loose network of friends & affiliations around the world, both online & off, are doing important, exciting things…even if “only” on their tumblrs, their unpublished poems, their fliers, or their instagrams….
“this is literally a hobby”
Look where the Venezuelan aid went, then it becomes quite obvious why Chavez was cheered by Haitians
also, fucking duh. as an aside, that’s why all these models and initiatives to change/develop/progress society are fucked. they provide no ultimate breaks from the system that produces this suffering status quo. i’m not sure that any political practices embedded in that system (e.g. all practices) can do that anyways.
In 2009, the Chronicle of Higher Education ran an “advice” piece entitled “Graduate School in the Humanities: Don’t Go.” In the article, Professor William Pannapacker (ironically of Hope College) proceeded to get real and lay down some truth for aspiring seekers of higher…
Your great mistake is to act the drama
as if you were alone. As if life
were a progressive and cunning crime
with no witness to the tiny hidden
transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny
the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely,
even you, at times, have felt the grand array;
the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding
out your solo voice You must note
the way the soap dish enables you,
or the window latch grants you freedom.
Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity.
The stairs are your mentor of things
to come, the doors have always been there
to frighten you and invite you,
and the tiny speaker in the phone
is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into
the conversation. The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness and
seen the good in you at last. All the birds
and creatures of the world are unutterably
themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
— David Whyte
reading out loud is bourgeois