ever since i heard that version of ‘no children’ by the mountain goats that was recorded at a concert where the singer didn’t sing at all and it was the audience, instead, who sang the entire song together surprisingly well and coherently (i reblogged it here) it’s like.. i too have wanted to go to a mountain goats concert and experience something like that. imagine. imagine singing ‘iam drowning, there is no sign of land, you are coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand’ with hundreds of other people and your voices blending together into one sea. for a crowd to take those horrifically tragic lyrics and make it something communal, something connective. it would be something i’d always remember. oh to sing no children by the mountain goats in collective anon… doesn’t it sound transcendent! does anyone here get what i mean
a little larger than the entire universe - fernando pessoa // hafsa qasim // rosewater1997 // iphigenia in forest hills - janet malcolm // img // genesis 3:6
maurice sendak // late afternoon by patrick saunders // oranges by gary soto // @tessathompsun // sweet generous fruit by @julykings // the nuisance by marge piercy //@nathanielorion //orange sunrise by mickie cierno // the orange by wendy cope // our beautiful life when it’s filled with shrieks by christopher citro // still life with basket and six oranges by vincent van gogh // moonlight (2016) barry jenkins
@soracities // Old Woman Peeling An Orange by Edward E. Simmons // Spat Out Spit by Lady Lamb // Dreaming of Pomegranates by Felice Casorati // The Thirteen Letters // Peeled Orange by Ion Andreescu // Nectarines by General Vibe // The Little Fruit Seller by John Singer Sargent // Tintin in Tibet by Mount Eerie // The Side Effects Of Eating Too Many Clementines by Alessia Di Cesare
[poem text: all words come from somewhere. cradle of the larynx, riverbanks of the vocal cords. once upon a time you pressed your fingertips to my not-adam’s apple & called it holy, holy, gifted me with the shapes of the word wings & suddenly, flight. in spite of everything, i’ll still spend this morning praying as steam rises & sugar melts: oh starmaker, bless bees for their dancing, bless the neighbor for her breadmaking, bless the sweat running down my forehead & stinging my eyes. i am teaching myself how to sing hymns again for you, slowly, with this small human mouth, with its crooked teeth & its blackberry-craving tongue. while i wait for the coffee to cool, my lover is moving through our garden, tending to the carrots & to the fig tree, checking the scar left behind in the landscape after i fell. violets are growing there now, he told me last week as he came in from the rain, wet shirt clinging to his chest, eyes shining. wild violets, same color as the heart of a saint. & lord, there is no word more beautiful than his name. i will be singing it to him until the heat-death of this universe robs us all of sound. holy, holy is the gleam of his teeth as he laughs. you know i let him touch my shoulder blades now? /end poem text]
