love your city

caress the detail, the divine detail
May 19, 2011, 08:39
Filed under: street scriptures


May 18, 2011, 15:06
Filed under: floetry

the prince went slowly through the forest. his beautiful horse was silent. the sky was taking on the color of roses.
will i be in time, the prince wondered.
he remembered what the magician had told him,
night is your only enemy. once it has cast its cloak of darkness over the world and you cannot tell the shadow of a dog from that of a wolf, you will know it is too late and that your beautiful lady is lost forever. hurry if you love her.
the prince’s heart was pounding.

p’tit-lys, il y a longtemps que je t’aime 

sailing to byzantium
May 16, 2011, 20:44
Filed under: floetry

the time, the place, the torture. her fan, her gloves, her mask. i spent that night and many others getting it out of her bit by bit, but not getting it all. i was under the strange delusion that first i must find out every detail, reconstruct every minute, and only then decide whether i could bear it. but the limit of desired knowledge was unattainable, nor could i ever foretell the approximate point after which i might imagine myself satiated, because of course the denominator of every fraction of knowledge was potentially as infinite as the number of intervals between the fractions themselves. – v. nabokov, “that in aleppo once…” 

may is a pious fraud
May 1, 2011, 10:04
Filed under: trill

may is a pious fraud of the almanac.
a ghastly parody of real spring
shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind;
or if, o’er-confident, she trust the date
and, with her handful of anemones,
herself as shivery, steal into the sun,
the season need but turn his hour-glass round,
and winter suddenly, like crazy lear,
reels back, and brings the dead may in his arms,
her budding breasts and wan dislustred front
with frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard
all overblown. then, warmly walled with books,
while my wood-fire supplies the sun’s defect,
whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams,
i take my may down from the happy shelf
where perch the world’s rare song-birds in a row,
waiting my choice to upen with full breast,
and beg an alms of springtime, ne’er denied
indoors by vernal chaucer, whose fresh woods
throb thick with merle and mavis all the years.

– j.r. lowell