“These days it feels like breathing, like sleeping, like conversation. Sometimes
like running. A reintroduction to my own breath. I know your body’s pleasure
better than I know my own. Skin and slip and kiss. A bent over slide, like some
ride, you make of me. All the while watching.
In the mirror, we perform for the glass, though only I see this scene.
That’s you, your licked fingers, making my back arc.
A curled-toe shiver. A crying sigh and collapse.
Afterwards, we are again separate. Legs wound round, a shared immediate
sleep, mammal warmth. Here we are.”—
“So I decided to become a midwife… I wanted to deliver a thousand babies. And as each one arrives, especially the little girls, I’ll be there first to whisper into her tender little ear: REBEL! REBEL!”—
“The poet wants to rejoin the poem
even after behaving terribly and can’t. You aren’t welcome because you’re something else now.
An estranged father, a white-noise of two lovers
lost in Malibu. One nervous. One naively fearless.
One ill-equipped for the rapidly aggregating promises
made by two of the damned rowing in tandem in the dark.
At a certain point it’s beyond forgiveness
and I couldn’t positively tell you why.
In Hebrew, the word for near and inside sound nearly identical
told to a crowd at a party which one is asked to leave
for having two beyond too many, for behaving terribly.
Then back down the same fire escape, same sidewalks,
same phone buzzing into oblivion.
Like sometimes all that clots the wound
is Don’t call here drunk and late.
One blameless. One half-conscious.
The stars tripping themselves up in the dark.
I have a failing organ, you say. I want to be forgiven.
And though asking isn’t receiving, the soul has six wings
and roars. The shoreline tonight so calculated and cool.
There is not a person left worth forgiving you.”—
Rominger did an interview with ABC 27 in Harrisburg, and he gave the most odious explanation yet for Jerry Sandusky’s showering with young boys. He says Sandusky was trying to help, because these kids didn’t know how to lather up.
“Some of these kids don’t have basic hygiene skills. Teaching a person to shower at the age of 12 or 14 sounds strange to some people, but people who work with troubled youth will tell you there are a lot of juvenile delinquents and people who are dependent who have to be taught basic life skills like how to put soap on their body.”
Go die in a fire. All of you.
Ick, this is like the guys on To Catch A Predator saying they just came to warn the 13 year-old girl about talking to strangers online.
JUST STOP TALKING. WHY ARE PEOPLE STILL TRYING TO EXPLAIN THIS AWAY. JUST STOOOOOOP.
Fifteen minutes after swallowing my heart, I flip on the lamp and search the index of first lines. The empty grocery cart is beginning to roll comes closest to what I mean to say, but seems stuffy. I have described barking for no reason and kissing you elsewhere. My heart is re-swallowed—I don’t…
At first you were lonely
then I was lonely. Then
we fell through the hammock
in our sloping yard.
Here’s my corner
of the pissed-in shed.
Here’s to that moment of joy
when the boat opened the sea
the sea opened the sail
and the sail billowed: a broken neck
in a bright blue kite sky.
You swept the bangs
from my forehead
in the glorious dampness
on the eve of our undoing
at the expense of so much saltwater.
You called me over to the candle
of a lighthouse and all its burning.
You called me down to the cake of crust
beneath the reef and what it divides.
Just pretend there’s a really good reason
to praise the waves that flow upward now
through the steep streets
of our quiet town
across Bella’s small grave
across the tossed fruit
we first ate from
through our orange bedroom
with the faded blinds
through our blindness—
the Wednesdays and the Saturdays
of our twenties now passing.
Call me down to the floor
like a starfish you loved once
for too many arms.
Ashley Seitz Kramer, Between Land and Water (via yesyes