April 2010
23 posts
1 tag
An excerpt from the 98,000 seconds our eyes were...
I’m feeling life slowly come back. Like pale skin to a cut throat, or my mother’s hand coming through six feet of earth. There is still a curse, there is still a truth of life that isn’t spoken. There is still “Je n’etais rien”, and there is still instability. The ground doesn’t shake, I still smile, I still love. I still. I still. I still say “et...
“It fills my heart with sadness how much it cost me to build this house. I cannot...”
– Buried Secrets: Truth and Human Rights in Guatemala by Victoria Sanford quoted from Don Sebastian.
One of the many atrocities committed by the U.S backed Guatemala during the 1980s. Over 200,000 people were killed, and many as 1.5 million people were directly effected by the rampant terrorization...
2 tags
Anonymous asked: is there anyone from tumbler who you would want to hang out with irl or meet?
Yo!
Ask me something, while I procrastinate on my paper!
1 tag
There is an apathy in regards to death.
I don’t have any walls, or canals, or levees, or eloquent bridges. My roads are choked in ancient dust and torn roads, beggars holding forks and knives in front of a plate full of dirt. The bands all fall short of dancing, and the moon is yellow with sickness, impunity disguised as misogyny.
All I have are these marigolds, they line the dead streets of Mexico in sun bathed colors of the...
“What twisted people we are. How simple we seem, or at least pretend to be in...”
– Roberto Bolaño (via octothorp) (via septembrist)
1 tag
Riens du tout
I dance because I feel compelled to, a need to. I play music because I feel divinity align, God’s splintered refraction in my all too human heart. Words spill from me because I allow the ancestors to speak through me, cycles of mistakes and learned lessons reaching fruition as it withers. I feel the music of life’s drums echo deeply and I allow it to do as it may as.
There is a poetry...
1 tag
Anonymous asked: O_o
you should think about deleting your last post.
hate when people do things like that.
you should think about deleting your last post.
hate when people do things like that.
1 tag
Llanto por Ignacio Sanchez Mejias (1935)
The bull does not know you, nor the fig tree,
nor the horses, nor the ants in your own house.
The child and the afternoon do not know you
because you have died forever.
The shoulder of the stone does not know you
nor the black silk on which you are crumbling.
Your silent memory does not know you
because you have died forever
The autumn will come with conches,
misty grapes and clustered...
Sullen Blue Sky: April in Spring! →
ndnick:
undertheskysoblue:
ndnick:
Sun kissed skin, water guns, a white bully with sick kicks, three white girls, a Spanish girl, a Costa Rican, a Nicaraguan, an awkward Arabic, this old ass white guy who tells jokes with a straight face, bikes that fold together, naps, getting burnt, throwing pistachios up shorts (because its…
IM NOT A BULLY!!!!! Being blunt and being a bully are totally...
1 tag
April in Spring!
Sun kissed skin, water guns, a white bully with sick kicks, three white girls, a Spanish girl, a Costa Rican, a Nicaraguan, an awkward Arabic, this old ass white guy who tells jokes with a straight face, bikes that fold together, naps, getting burnt, throwing pistachios up shorts (because its finally warm enough to wear ‘em!) at cleavages at some hair and at each others general direction,...
1 tag
Voice, the heart of a noun.
The foliage of moons, tugging at midnight waves, and the trembling leopard orchids, abrupt in nature and a garment of light salt and honey, brushed the tiger’s tail. In an attempt, in a crucible, in the mind’s instant, the tiger begs the moon:
“Moon, high in the hollow of black and in the deepness of dance among kissed diamonds, why are you as such? I see bruises and I see...
1 tag
1 tag
Baile de Canto
We’re dancing to these proud horns
in celebration of the regalia of death.
The grip, the bone,
the ice, the unknown.
The flies, that launder into camellias,
we put on as masks to reveal our true selves.
No shame in our precise dancing.
Moving, eyes locked,
as if a matador and a bull crazed.
Eyes in vein, La Muerte in reign.
The royalty can not stop the evening’s wind,...
1 tag
Brillo
The city in her paint,
the children with their
soccer balls.
The old removed
with their fear.
Bricks, speaking in moonlight,
inlaid between pastel houses.
The rich, wearing the
Jackal’s mask, sitting
on a stolen mound of
oro.
