artchipel:

Jesus Perea | on Tumblr - Arriving home. Art print

Sad Farewell by Duane Michals, 1968

Also

(via an-itinerant-poet)

(Source: c1tylight5, via orchid)

(via complimentarycouture)

soniafeliz:

I traveled for one month around California and I swear I saw the most breathtaking landscapes. It was a great experience to explorer new places, to try the local food and to meet new people. I got lucky enough to grab a few stills and I’m still working on a video.

(Source: soniafelizv, via carbonrings)

onologue:

New York Public Library by Bryan Chang on Flickr.

gapgardening:

everything is illuminated (too bright to see, too loud to hear) //

It’s four in the morning on a bus,
but I’ll let you figure out just where I’m heading and from what I’m running.
The South is enormous - it swallows everything -
it’s been ten hours and I’m still waiting to see the Mason-Dixon,
that wall of industrial smoke the cotton crush Bible Belt covers up 
with church signs broadcasting the end of the world to rich farmers
and poor black families on every street corner, 
two buildings down from the Waffle House.

Child,
it’s a bad idea to fall in love with girls both north and south of 
the 39.43’ parallel,
east and west of the Mississippi,
and in spring parks back home who miss assholes and not writers,
so this is where I’m less concerned about you asking
every woman on the subway to dance 
or the girl in that dress you recognize from dropouts
(she wears it better than you did);
see, go ahead and romanticize fire escapes
and cityscape double exposure backbones,
but reconsider the fact that you are a year late
and leagues away in both directions from the nights
you stayed up all night to meet new and old friends.
There is no way to re-do that conversation, kid,
those talks,
and now you’re stuck with the awkwardness of being half-asleep
and unsure but pretty positive that there’s nothing you should take from the mixed signals of breathing patterns or
writing poems for the month of may or pianist fingertips.
At least you have crossed further south off your list,
for it leads to nothing but anxiety and the sea,
Savannah/Sahara parades.
(Perfection is a close word to where this is going,
in terms of natural disasters.)

So drinking beer in a park in Brooklyn with strangers
and friends you may never see again,
it’s that sputtering blink of a street lamp
the brother’s brother and mother’s son sang of,
where it makes you taller, shrinks you, splits you in half,
and you’re trailing yourself, but isn’t that old news anyway?
With life lessons from hipsters clinging to tobacco smoke
at five in the morning in the city that never sleeps,
what more can you expect but flavored air and weed
where it doesn’t belong, 
and the one thing missing is CHRIST, 
spread out between photographs and pottery,
still image verses and alabaster jar offerings of blessings or betrayal.
But I heard him denied not thrice, 
but one hundred times a day before the rooster crows
or the morning breaks,
but we pass by him and his dogwood bloody sign
and it reads THIS IS JESUS, KING OF THE JEWS,
but we don’t have to nail spikes to a cross to murder God,
not in this day and age.
Drunk mid-western philosophers can do that
and once again, you’re trailing yourself, some beautiful bullshit,
and they crucify themselves to their own crosses,
but I still pray for conversations I should have had 
eleven months ago with California
and the one I should have now in a house down the street in Athens,
because you’re my incentive even though you can’t see that,
and I just want to fall back asleep because that was easier.

It is too bright to see, too loud to hear,
but I can still feel something.

thewayastormsounds:

nine mistakes. acrylic, canvas. may 2013.

.
Lindsey Adelman, BB.11.01

[ i will miss seeing one of these beautiful light fixtures every week at my internship. ]