We fall in love at weddings and auctions, over glasses
of wine in Italian restaurants where plastic grapes hang
on the lattice, our bodies throb
in the checkout line, the bus stop, at basketball games
and we can’t keep our hands off each other
until we can—
so we turn to rubber masks and handcuffs,
falling in love again.
We go to movies and sit in the air conditioned dark
with strangers who are in love
with heroes like Peter Parker
who loves a girl he can’t have
because he loves saving the world in red and blue tights
more than he would love to have her ankles wrapped around
his waist or his tongue between her legs.
While we watch films
in which famous people play famous people
who experience pain,
the boy who sold us popcorn loves the girl
who sold us our tickets
and stares at the runs in her stockings
even though she is in love
with the skinny kid who sold her cigarettes at the 7-11,
and if the world had any compassion
it would let the two of them pass
a Marlboro Light back and forth
until their fingers eventually touched, their mouths
sucking and blowing.
If the world knew how
the light bulb loved the socket
then we would all be better off.
We could all dive head first into the sticky parts.
We could make sweat a religion
and praise the holiness of smelliness.
I am going to stop here,
on this dark night,
on this country road,
where country songs
come from, and kiss her, this woman, below the trees
which are below the stars,
which are below desire.
There is a music to it, I hear it.
Johnny Rotten, Biggie Smalls, Johan Sebastian Bach, I don’t care
what they say—
I loved you the way my mouth loves teeth,
the way a boy I know would risk it all for a purple dinosaur,
who, truth be known, loved him.
In the Midwest, fields of corn are in love
with a scarecrow, his potato-sack head
and straw body, hanging out among the dog-eared stalks
like a farm-Christ full of love.
Turning on the radio I hear
how AM loves FM the way my mother loved Elvis
whose hips all young girls loved, sitting around the television
in a poodle skirt and bobby socks.
He LOVED ME TENDER so much
that I was born after a long night of Black-Russians
and Canasta while “Jailhouse Rock” rocked.
Stamps love envelopes, the licking proves it—
just look at my dog
who obviously loves himself with an intensity
no human being could sustain, though you can’t say
we don’t try.
In High school I once cruised
a McDonald’s drive-thru butt-naked
on a dare from a beautiful Sophomore,
only to be swallowed up by a grief
born from super-size or no super-size.
Years later I met a woman
named Heavy Metal Goddess
at a party where she brought her husband,
leading him through the dance floor by a leash,
while in Texas cockroaches love with such abandon
that they wear their skeletons on the outside.
Once a baby lizard loved me so completely,
he moved into my apartment and died of hunger.
No one loves war,
but I know a man
who loves tanks so much he wishes he had one
to pick up the groceries, drive his wife to work,
drop his daughter off at school with her Little Mermaid
lunch box, a note hidden inside
next to the apple, folded
with a love that can be translated into any language: I HOPE
YOU DO NOT SUFFER.
Matthew Dickman, ”Love” (via grammatolatry)
My sole desire in this life has been and continues to be;
to imagine the unimaginable and then to share it with the world
I don’t want cranes and forklifts jackhammers and belt sanders and power saws
Nor do I want ordinary hammers and screw drivers and wrenches
Not even exacto knives and surgeons scalpels and tweezers
I want murmurs and exhales and thoughts
I want light and water and words
Zero is so beautiful
It’s such a beautiful idea
It’s hardly discussed
You learn zero is special
But you never learn why
Some are even raised to think zero is nothing
Oh how wrong you are my dear
Zero is nonexistence
Yet has existence
Zero is ambiguity
Zero is infinity’s brother
You must have heard the mantra “you mustn’t divide by zero”
"You can’t divide by zero"
It leads to infinity
Calculus is built on zeros and infinities
Rates of change
Areas of surfaces
Volumes and change
Zero is perfect
It’s not merely an integer
The integers may be nice
Real numbers may be nice
But zero is at once real and not
Without it the rest would collapse
—noun, plural fris·sons .
a sudden, passing sensation of excitement; a shudder of emotion; thrill: The movie offers the viewer the occasional frisson of seeing a character in mortal danger.
it was a single room. matte grey. no furniture except the tatami mat on the floor and a few books opened face down. food was cooked on a collapsible propane stove folded in the corner. it was hardly used, mainly raw vegetables were consumed. he managed the grocery shop on the bottom floor of the building, she worked at the public library on the other side of the city. everyday she’d bring home new books that they’d skim through, any worth reading would be saved until they needed returning, the others would be taken back the next day. there was a giant chalkboard painted on one of the walls. sometimes they didn’t feel like speaking so they’d doodle each other messages. they both erased the thought of anyone else ever existing from their mind. occasionally a long lost friend would send a letter; an invitation to a wedding, a death in the family, a plea for some advice. guests were always welcome - it’s only that most of them found the place deplorable. “where do you guys do dishes?” “where are your clothes?” “you don’t have a television?” “how do you cook food?”
"why don’t you just leave?"
on stormy nights they’d both perch up on the windowsill and count the rain drops or watch the droplets scurry across the glass. sometimes he’d come home with lots of cardboard boxes and they’d call out of work the next day and just build - cities, bridges, planes, houses, trees, domes, everything!
some days the only thing that’d be said was “I will certainly miss you when you’re gone.”
sisyphus’ stone was probably more like a grain of sand. it’s like a whole day passes and all that seems to have actually happened is a few words spoken, a few doors opened, and a couple objects moved from here to there then back again.
My black nighted empress
Dancing around undressed in the corner of my eye
Whispering lovely melodies and I’m not quite sure why
She’s shrouded in metaphor
She couldn’t really exist
For if she were real, my yearning would subsist
Context and interpretation and inter subjectivity and the role of imagination in constructing some semblance of a coherent world - these things need to be talked about more