396 Photos Merged Into One Image Using The Lighten Blending Mode In Photoshop. I Think This One Pretty

And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure that someone was out there, squinting through the dust, saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only to be wanted back badly enough?

excerpt from Don’t you wonder, sometimes? by Tracy K. Smith, Life on Mars (via: skinthepoet)

Prayers and mantras will be blown by the wind and emit positive spiritual vibrations… Namaste 🙏🏼 at 5.357m http://ift.tt/2w44udz

Dear Dr. Frankenstein

I, too, know the sciences of building men Out of fragments in little light Where I’ll be damned if lightning don’t 

Strike as I forget one  May have a thief’s thumb, 

Another, a murderer’s arm,  And watch the men I’ve made leave Like an idea I meant to write down, 

Like a vehicle stuck  In reverse, like the monster

God came to know the moment  Adam named animals and claimed  Eve, turning from heaven to her

As if she was his To run. No word he said could be tamed. 

No science. No design. Nothing taken Gently into his hand or your hand or mine,  Nothing we erect is our own. 

- Jericho Brown (The New Testament)

Overlook by Rob Hauer

Dance is a body’s refusal to die. But, oh, your gone hair. The flame & orange flare. Our forms, our least known selves— barrel, sugar, & stench. Your pleas, looped in writing, the stutter of a body’s broken grammar. —Cathy Linh Che, from “I walked through the trees, mourning.” published in Poetry Magazine

the things we learn right before midnight

what’s keeping you from sleeping?

nothing. i’m just not ready to hit the sack.

why’s that?

you really want to know?

yep.

okay. but i don’t want you to think i’m crazy or leave this bed running, alright?

i wouldn’t do that.

right. okay. hmm. so, 24 years ago, on the eve of my birth, my mom decided to deliver her child in a graveyard. the city’s farthest most forgotten graveyard. she’s an artist, though; a lover of contrasts & a chaser of the dark.

oh

july 21st, lost in the depths of a summer night amid traces of grief, sorrow & dried petals, my mum gave birth to a baby she’d almost immediately hold between her arms. i don’t remember this of course, but i’ve been told she murmured:

‘hey, little one. i need you to think of death as your friend. a mutual. an ally. a confident.’

from that day on - my entire life, basically- i’ve never slept before midnight.

i stay still by the side of my bed, patiently waiting for my oldest friend to come sit by my side.

once he shows up, we tell each other how life treated us that day in our own sides of the realm.   we then hold hands & together, we end the life of yet another day.

- @skinthepoet

st-roch

Musée des Beaux Arts Marseille, France 10:27 a.m / 27 ° (prolly)

Jacques-Louis David (French painter) - 1748, Paris, FR St-Roch intércedant la Vierge pour la guérison des pestifecés Saint Roch Interceding with the Virgin for the Plague-Stricken

from old english 'martyr', late latin 'martyr' & doric greek 'martyr'; a witness, a proof, bystander, behoof. take all the blame in the world & thrust it upon a humble man until the weight of grief drowns him down to a single knee. to grab another man's mysery & wear it until fingers run black & every pore in the canvas of a body is painted in cold sweat. do we fold our hands in prayer to let our right tell our left there might be some wisdom in regret?

men and deity can't waltz in the dark; as men trip in shadows & deities only sway in the light. martyr & deity cross sights that hide words; martyr says grace; deity says wait (she's so hard to please but she's a forest fire).

belief turns to faith only when your feet run past the cliff's edge. it then whispers: roch, grab your fellow man's pain and make it your own; catapult it to the skies until the beads in your rosary become buboes under your skin. roch awaits a celestial intervention on the misery of humankind & holds dear the flames of disease. preaching hope & aching. miracles à la carte don't exist, roch later realized this when deities handed him his own cure while every standing being surrounding him, crumbled. but u a saint now, roch. u iconic.

- @skinthepoet

there are some stains only a dark rain can make.

Stacey Waite, from “when someone asks if you believe what you just said,” the lake has no saint (Tupelo Press, 2010)