Each year I know less about myself
but the insurance company knows
how much my life is worth.
This is for those who suffer & endure
& laugh about it later.
Someone asked, “where do you get
your news from if you don’t have a teevee?”
It is 7:36 a.m. & I have been awake
all night. I am pushing forward,
caffeinated & reminding myself:
don’t be busy. Busyness is the enemy
of art and life. Spring is here, it is
Saturday. The clouds make shapes & go.

-Gina Myers



You Make Me Feel Good - Satin Jackets

Pretty much.

(Source: mslovejoy, via visitary)


Poetry month fun! Today at noon eastern, NPR’s Code Switch team will start building a poem — made…

(via poetrybomb)

A lesson in smeyezing and naps.

A lesson in smeyezing and naps.

(Source: fuckyespharrell, via elidot)

I’m doing National Poetry Writing Month

and I’m doing it here:

Tags: napowrimo

"Your teachers / Are all around you./ All that you perceive,/ All that you experience, / All that is given to you/ Or taken from you, / All that you love or hate, / Need or fear/ Will teach you—/If you will learn…."

— Octavia Butler, Parable of the Sower (via amaalsdrifting)

(Source: howtobeterrell, via amaalsdrifting)


Victor Meeussen


Victor Meeussen

(via amaalsdrifting)

"Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile."

— Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via amaalsdrifting)

(Source: yesyes, via amaalsdrifting)