tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79132556969282503122026-05-18T01:35:45.272-05:00static/phantasmagoriaJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comBlogger170125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-42617128413093046852012-12-18T00:03:00.002-06:002012-12-18T00:03:35.214-06:00
I quenched my thirst with acid rain;
and the stain on the wall bears
the ghost of my hand gloved
with the fingerprints of a foreign man.
what do children know of guilt? you ask.
clasped hands behind young backs
tasteless palms stained with chocolate?
A pity that the senses don't condense
upon those grasping limbs.
But- no.
there is a window Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-14351691942966813242012-06-29T13:38:00.005-05:002012-06-29T13:39:10.879-05:00
For maturity is but imitation, and you will come to observe, then, that you are no better than the things which you fear... Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-80266585203698504952012-05-17T16:52:00.002-05:002012-05-17T16:53:47.130-05:00meditations on clarity:
Anything that begins with a pretense of coherence is plainly stupid.
DIRECTOR OF CASTING: I have but one request. Bring me someone that is riddled with humanity, someone who does not dissolve into what voyeuristic beauty is made of.
ASSISTANT: Why?
D: So that a connoisseur of moving portraiture is not taken with her.
A: And by that you mean?
D: The true artist lives Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-27884479404413783492012-03-28T22:35:00.003-05:002012-04-01T14:59:38.142-05:00manhattan (a poem)
The physicist broke the world; The world broke the physicist.
In the city, towers bloom inward, fetal.Towers condescend, towers boast, towers pierceonly whatever plane lies abovethe tallest ambition in a bobbing crowd.(The crowd wields the mortar.)It is as if they are quizzicaladolescents, scrunching timein their newly found fists as it shiftsuneasily, beneath them.
He imagines a Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-59951358588716960082012-01-31T12:56:00.012-06:002013-09-10T23:58:59.606-05:00To all whom it may concern:
Has it ever occurred to you that impact is commonly considered a measure of how much a stranger thinks of you? That by projecting an impression, we allow for a consideration of a summary of us that, in many ways, transcends what we are. The best photographs of the ocean are taken when it is posing- at high tide, say- but if you were to live with it, it would mellow to consistency and coexist, Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-30336777319706422802011-12-14T23:14:00.004-06:002012-04-01T15:13:03.293-05:00
It is frightening, to either be in control of one's limbs or the things that tie them [like Heisenberg, I suppose.]
Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-10690758924501077832011-10-21T19:00:00.017-05:002011-10-23T20:40:51.202-05:00 There is something that appeals to every cartographer about the trajectory of a heartbreak. Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-77166274540012466342011-07-30T17:33:00.078-05:002011-09-10T00:01:37.955-05:00
Loneliness is the easiest thing to feel
and
There is nothing that was ever unimaginable.
(sometimes I wonder whether the world is a mirror.)
There is a hierarchy of fact in which the most menial of things has no meaning. All the buildings are floating and the Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-51912514418676502622011-06-23T14:00:00.007-05:002011-06-23T15:32:29.536-05:00
The only thing I ever killed was possibility −
Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-2815859034271901912011-06-12T20:18:00.010-05:002011-09-09T14:25:28.910-05:00
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She states of the love affair ; it drained me like a vacuum would ( people disappoint me , but Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-3468992886576716582011-06-04T19:56:00.006-05:002011-06-09T09:21:37.660-05:00
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"It's excessively strange, isn't it? " she said. "How we can only be finite but not know what it encompasses."
entry no.14;
Dissolving into the frames of Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-21944241557741067682011-05-22T08:42:00.021-05:002011-05-26T07:08:11.110-05:00
she wanted to be everything, but echoes were never rooted in permanence, and so what was was undefined, a string-theorist's nightmare. He told her this. She let fragility envelope the quietude of her hands, folded and Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-21963344792572184882011-05-05T10:41:00.012-05:002011-05-16T13:36:24.176-05:00
passages from the mailman’s wake
…in the days before winter, we floated on the things we sought to see. now we drown the ship before it sets sail.
- in these beads, we mold an uncomfortable truth into grotesque paintings. he remains on the tightrope, waiting for the thread to run from his feet-(the door, the door. the latch’s rusted now, you strangled your smile with it when the flashlight Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-85151794974143124012011-03-30T15:30:00.028-05:002011-05-26T07:07:15.934-05:00
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she holds only murdered echoes of proximity;no one has yet been convicted of the crimeJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-56101977874303520462011-03-02T18:07:00.025-06:002011-06-28T14:10:17.761-05:00
to the ghost of winter:
relics are their own poetry, they haunt the fingertips of strangers.
you weave yourself like stagnant rain, irascible and tarnished, edges of these diamond-pools scuttling away like&Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-36273576927678919182011-02-11T20:30:00.009-06:002011-05-26T10:30:14.907-05:00
is it possible to feel too much? evening's incendiary is syncopated in the way of a toddler, stumbling on fountains but always desiccated, reminiscent of a fractured stage and crumbling voices. everything implores from cavities of light(like hurt), vicinities and vicinities fluctuate. our lackluster eyes grow blank. we fill the bellows of our lungs with smoke, our thoughts become Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-66214093112999881532011-01-28T00:00:00.021-06:002011-01-28T17:49:54.705-06:00
wings; how they toy with thin filaments of broken hearts. oh, we do convince ourselves that what we never caught(with bruised hands) we somehow did let go. wings; how light they are in our escape, but how anvil-like are their statues of absence. like lustrous bones(they are the ribcage of a subatomic quark, cannot be broken even in vicissitudes of totality’s degree.)will beJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-51318973504988765022011-01-21T16:46:00.003-06:002011-01-25T12:34:26.743-06:00.
she tries to be a cartographer, etching and blurring the desultory veins of her heart until their absence is more palpable than sorrow. the branches are still not right. she lets the shavings loose on the wind. (she is not the sky; the sky is forever.)
there is no truth, we all have our own.
.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-12691835661917153882011-01-14T11:39:00.014-06:002011-07-15T20:26:17.317-05:00lightsoff
the dark, the dark; she cries into the brush translucent tears that filter a spectrum and in the morning everyone is laughing for the sake of effervescent dewdrops. daybreak is not where sight begins; there is the shadow and there is the person, and the shadow comes from the person and isn’t the person. they both stand on each other’s feet and they are each other’s ground, phantom Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-66221523364753361942011-01-01T00:00:00.008-06:002011-01-01T06:34:10.780-06:00(oh, I think that it's better to be alive and hurting than whole and safe.) [dubai's skyline]
I am afraid that angels will dissolve at the sight of grit. I am afraid that I cannot stomach an atmosphere.
we gathered there Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-43607121945970461202010-12-24T09:00:00.000-06:002010-12-24T09:00:09.975-06:00wonders, forged
[photo credit]
in the night, we wait in feverish anticipation for Santa Claus, eyes secretly half open. we leave him chocolate chip cookies. we have no idea what kind he prefers.
she asks, what if he's allergic to eggs? and when she gets no answer she can hear herself echo bottomlessly.
she can't catch snow in bed; the walls are flawless. but in the morning, she will have presents.
[thank Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-33817572958213277762010-12-21T15:45:00.007-06:002010-12-21T19:50:23.444-06:00solstice
the days are so short, and now night has bleached day with a disseminating dye so bleak that it seems that wide eyes are the same as closed eyelids with the sun shining in(or was I falling asleep?) anticipation kisses clouds and suffocates the moon and the stars(they blaze white and glow red with alarm but you are blinded already); time is a statue of subtlety, rushing by on Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-65342543396365581042010-12-14T01:25:00.001-06:002010-12-15T16:02:32.748-06:00meteors: II
the geminids.
they are a splattered mess of a thousand broken necklaces, a million hanging lights that fall through tiny holes onto the grass. they blur and spin and burn like the snow. fluctuating circuits of vegas signs; they dribble down and down, vines and tendrils like a drapery of exponents and lightning.
it is I, and the universe. there is no one here to crumble this sky, only the wind Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-4597289779880012262010-12-05T19:24:00.000-06:002013-09-11T10:02:50.550-05:00the bottomless things
sunday afternoon on the river. the bridge cartwheels over the shores like the top-string in a tapestry. in the water, the sky is deep and high all at once. canoes are paintbrushes, fish are wind. a ledge bears a trickle that isn't a waterfall. it is falling faster, and faster, and faster more.
the dream boy; his eyes are smiles and marbles. he is a lanky replica of a birch treeJuliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7913255696928250312.post-37615864213133839102010-11-30T11:39:00.000-06:002010-11-30T11:39:00.688-06:00cantilevers like diving boards
to begin with, the sun created a significant tidal bulge on a young, molten Mercury, a bulge that locked into place when the planet solidified.
sometimes, when all the trees are severed, shamefully nude stumps, poetry is the only limb you have.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07708983481584067116noreply@blogger.com8