R.D. Kimball- Not A Rabbi.

Malcolm’s coo became a cry. The big hands came, to sweep him up, into the dark, cradled, into the big arms. And his cries, despite himself and the rage that swelled within him, subsided.

The big arms swayed, the soft sounds soothed, and Malcolm rocked, he swum, he spun. His arms too small too tired, his legs useless and swaddled up. He liked the rocking, it eased the ache of his anger. It reminded him of the wheel.

The spinning wheel of endless endless, the wheel of flame, where his candle was relit, where his heart was reforged. From the wheel he was spit into the cold and harsh and bright, with the blanket nests and the big ones with their big hands.

He remembered the wheel. He remembered before that, too, lying on his bed, his arms too week too tired, his legs useless for many years, and Sarah looking down at him to soothe. The sounds. Like the ones that rocked him now.

He wanted the old sounds the old hands in his. He was frightened of the new world. He wanted to scream. He couldn’t do this. Be so helpless, not again.

Where is the wheel? Where-

There is light-
Urgent breath on the back
Of your neck
Waiting to unwrap
A birthday present

And there is your smile

Which gathers the morning
From its diaspora
To sweep the sunlight
Into dustpans

Parsing improbable
heartbeats
Into the vaulted bounty
Of your upturned
Lips

Give me the fathoms
In your eyes
And fingertips

I arch against
The solitude of morning

Let us build a bright
And stalwart Spirit

To feast together
On harvests grown
From that good Sun
And gathered off the back
Of your neck
And your smiles

Let our sweet skins
Groan in unison
For water

Let me hold up
The corners of your table
So that you
May rest

And darling

Please,

Come to me,
When the morning
Seems distant

Smile

And sweep me up

everythinginthesky:

Shorpy Historical Photo Archive: Holy Coffee Mugs!

Batman and Robin (Adam West and Burt Ward) on the “Batman” set in Los Angeles in 1966.

(via neil-gaiman)

“Writing begins in the body, it is the music of the body, and even if the words have meaning, can sometimes have meaning, the music of the words is where the meanings begin… and what you hear is the rhythm of your heart, the beating of your heart… Writing as a lesser form of dance.”
-Paul Auster, “Winter Journal”

I think of me, when I was smaller, and I wanted to make things. Pictures, stories. I acted them out. I used my body. Words were fine, I used them when necessary. But if I was fighting bad guys, I didn’t describe the action. I swung my fist.

Words are pretty things. I like them. There is a tactile sensation to them, when they burst to life, when their magic is invoked and their meaning is revealed. They are fickle little creatures.

But they are a means of surpassing the body. Of overcoming its limitations. Some of us lack a home in our own flesh, and we reach for acts of creation outside of it.

Words are dances for those of us who can barely stand. Are symbols for those of us who cannot sense. Are lives for those of us too cautious to really live. Are crutches to support our lesser forms.

sovietpostcards:

by Ivan Semyonov

WE’VE LANDED ON THE MOON!!

Roses are red
Violets are blue
This is a poem

…

Fart.

Some days
I drink too deep

My stomach
Fit to burst

Still guzzling
Still gulping

Still slavering
For sweet taste

And my whole
World shudders

With the slake
And the weight

And the mark
And the blood

The levee swells
And the flood

Is a gnash
And a hunger

My flesh is gorged
With the wellspring

Bulging, and gasping
“Enough!”

Yet still I thirst.

Remember. Don’t be a gel douche.