“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so out of control that you have to transform your life…”—Elizabeth Gilbert (via oceanofmind)
It’s not about sports, neither is it about male chauvinism, because believe me I hate that shit. But, it’s about symbolism. It’s what they represent for the city, for the kids who live in shitty living conditions, of children with no fathers and single mothers, for the people who live in neighborhoods where the cops never come, for forty years of praying and yearning that the city that we live in isn’t a complete shit hole where nothing gets done in the ways of education or living conditions, for the people drinking alone in the quarter not to get trashed, but just to keep warm, it’s for the city of New Orleans, it’s for everyone of us smiling at each other and shouting nonsensical words that carry so much emotion, and even if it were grammatically correct the ‘WHO DAT’S” and the “WHOOO’S” still carry an essence only felt for those who love the city. My God, I hate football, but the Saints are my team, and they’re my city’s hope.
We’re a hot mess.
The oak’s leering branches didn’t quite
catch all the rain drops. Loose morsels
caught themselves onto our clothing.
I wasn’t squinting because of the hour
or because I pretended the sun was out,
but because these ideas, once pregnant,
became without fruition. Detached and without
my footing on leverage. You’ll find someone,
because you know what they say, right?
“The universe provides.”
“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”—Louise Erdrich (The Painted Drum: A Novel) (via tai-sao) (via incessantlove)
I had your roses out of place.
Crimson waves against the backdrop
of a sunsetting on it’s sea.
An azure calamity becoming tranquil.
The pride outlining your character was
purple and the pieces it broke into were
purple, but despite the narrowness of
your eyes, my own narrow mindedness
became tangled. The tattoos that faded
became your burden, the world as your throne.
Bogotá within La Nouvelle-Orléans
The old Caesar and the burned ashes.
The curtains unfurled, and around the edges
of this stage were rose-bushes, taut and dry.
Watching us was like listening to Italian words,
and by listening the laden phrases dripped
with thick honey. Sweet and unused but
so full of contradiction. I won’t use caution.
The lines on your face are far too beautiful for caution.
“writing is just too private and quiet to provide the kind of outlet i need to keep my equilibrium in check, that’s why i picked up this mike and started yelling at my reflection, dig up the seeds before they become infected, and kill the weeds before they leave a permanent impression.”—
i forgot the way the world spun the day i saw you. how you felt between my fingers on the first night. i can’t remember what you said, but i remember the way you said it. i can still feel your voice, warm and soft on my neck before the morning touched us with warm hands - first our lips, then our fingernails, until it found our thighs and we knew we couldn’t hide. and i loved you fast. we were young and you made it easy. with your dark skin, with your swamp eyes. your hair was long when we met. i’d make wishes on the curls that dropped to your shoulder like falling stars. i tried to burn through you one winter but you held me between your lungs. i have so many broken parts. you know them all. you took the pieces and said they were ours. and you still kiss my shoulder blades like there’s nothing to be afraid of. and i still wish on all your stars like they’ll find me whenever i’m lost.
My heart showers over you with words that coated the banks of ancient rivers,
whose visage were eroded millennia ago,
creating a new path that these waters must traverse.
This internal ruby shines indigo, a veil, a nuance.
My mother is bared, her name behind chipped stone.
The hard trees suffer against the clutching cold
as they catch ray after ray of our dear sun.
My blinds were unbending, like the yellow bird buried.
The sun found it’s way between our words and between
our smiles. Your eyes squint when they’re curious, and
only when you squint is when you’re honest. Porcelain
waltz. Skin, hand across foreheads. Disentangled, we
chase the shadows cast, speaking in bleated whispers.
I don’t know what came out. I don’t know about the frozen over oaks or the water pipes that keep bursting under my father’s home. I don’t understand why I don’t call you when I need you most, laying on a trail of humid blankets and a mountain of pillows. The broadening skies produce bone colored clouds covering the cities highest buildings hiding each and every single-kissed person from the harsh streets that grumble, as if a star devoured his tail.
It doesn’t matter in which direction I look; up above, every well dressed basted thinks he owns his life’s key, while he still disdains the flowers that bloom in full health every spring. Down bellow, ignorance holds its crown steadily, as the you and the me’s of the world rummage the dregs for just a hint of warmth. A fire that steadily flickers, sparkling with hope filled images of what the future is supposed to be, of what our lives were supposed to be.
“the chosen one from the land of the frozen sun where drunk nights get remembered more than sober ones walk like warriors, we were never taught to run explored the world to return to where my soul begun never looking back, or too far in front of me the present is a gift, and i just wanna be…”
a perfect intro to one of the best albums of the noughties..