I'm twenty-two. Portland, Oregon is my hom[i]e. This is a blog about Lee Pace's eyebrows, among other things.
I write for I Eat Words.com
I.
If you, by chance, come across my beloved
remind him of me.
Of these eyes, and these hands
He will remember me as a poet,
and as a pair of eyes
a set of hands.
II.
This is what poets do.
Fall in love, over and out.
They break hearts,
poets do,
and then wail when their own are bruised.
Words carry no weight,
meaning is in silence -
in the space between history and hope.
They divine watermelon seeds,
touch everything.
Counter philosophies,
count on deities,
poets live cusping fear.
For years,
they travel.
Exile a constant static state
Where they live,
life is unreal until
A kiss.
This is the present they offer.
III.
When you find my beloved,
the dark-haired, smiling-eyed one,
remind him of me.
Of my laugh, and my dance.
Do not tell him I have cried nightly for him,
waited for him.
These words carry no weight.
Simply remind him -
we are poets,
each of us,
travelers between history
and hope.
President Obama
Bo Obama
Presidential puppy!
Favorite
“Transatlanticism” - Death Cab for Cutie
I need you so much closer.
“Dat New New (Viking Remix)” — KiD CuDi
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
The Ballad of Love and Hate - The Avett Brothers
akron/family - don’t be afraid, you’re already dead
