I believe that if you roll over at night
in an empty bed,
the air consoles you.

I believe in destiny.
And I believe in free will.

And I believe that whatever
pulls us under
will do so gently,

so as not to disturb anyone,
so as not to interfere
with what we believe in.

What I Believe- Michael Blumenthal (via freudian-slipped)

And Here You Are By Michael Blumenthal


It’s such a relief to see the woman you love walk out the door 
some nights, for it’s ten o’clock and you need your eight hours 
of sleep, and one glass of wine has been more than enough

and, as for lust—well, you can live without it most days and you 
are glad, too, that the Ukrainian masseuse you see every Wednesday 
is not in love with you, and has no plans to be, for it’s the pain

in your back you need relief from most, not that ambiguous itch, 
and the wild successes of your peers no longer bother you 
nor do your unresolved religious cravings nor the general injustice

of the world, no, there is very little that bothers you these days when 
you turn, first, to the obituaries, second to the stock market, then, 
after a long pause, to the book review, you are becoming a good citizen,

you do your morning exercises, count your accumulated blessings, 
thank the Lord there’s a trolley just outside your door your girlfriend 
can take back home to her own bed and here you are it is morning you

are alone every little heartbeat is yours to cherish the future is on fire 
with nothing but its own kindling and whatever it is that’s burning 
in its flames isn’t you and now you will take a shower and this is it.

Poetry begins in a not-knowing rather than a moral impulse. A poet’s consciousness is, in this sense, improvisational and open to transformations, felicitous accidents, and an intuitive response to language generating meaning and music—that is true whether the spark igniting the poem comes from a word, a phrase, an image, or a moment in experience, present or remembered. This spark is what Mandelstam calls poryv, or impulse, and what Emerson thinks of as what is oldest and best in us, the alien visitor. This not-knowing is a hovering and receptive state of consciousness without intention (in the traditional meaning of that word).

Carolyn Forché, in an interview with Poetry Magazine (via itgivesitthew)

(via itgivesitthew)

The television is on
to a channel that reports
the sexual assault of
three sixth graders
by their gym teacher
and I am checking my
eleven year old sister’s
arms for marks.

Between my fingers,
where the skin is soft
and the papercuts sit,
the keys have made
grooves in my skin,
like the weapons they
become at sundown.
I whisper prayers at 8 PM,
walking home. I pray the
night paints me invisible
to the man whose footsteps
get closer behind me.

My father laughs.
He says this womanhood
is a volcano made
for blanketing.
Looks at my bare calves,
the cliffs of my shoulders,
the kohl around my eyes,
and dares me to
say something.
I smile back until
my gums ache, tightening
my fist around the
red lipstick in my pocket.

This weekend,
I memorized saying “no”
in 24 different languages.
I imagined mixing them
into your breakfast cereal,
writing them into your mirror fog.
Each one runs carousels
in my mind until the space
between my legs becomes
dizzy from memory.
Each one is the mouth of a gun
to which my head is taped.
Each one
heavy with a power I still
do not feel entitled.

Tell Me This is Not a Problem | Ramna Safeer  (via maza-dohta)

(via blackboybe)










Kerry Washington performing Sojourner Truth's 1851 "Ain't I A Woman" speech

 A clip from the History Channel’s “The People Speak”




In worship!!!!

My soul has been cleansed

I felt the need to reblog this again because^^^^^^ all that. Whew. I luh her.

Ugh I wish she was my Mama.


(via growingupisforsuckers)