bestill my heart, tiny boy in a yellow shirt.
none of us are pretty, but our ugly has an alibi.
my whole life is right.
“last night i painted a purple tree on my bedroom wall
i woke up this morning in a pile of leaves
the color of a million different faces
thinking of that hand / that planted the seed
of the family tree / that grew us all
and how each one of us
will one day fall back to the ground.
this morning / i was listening to my heart pound
knowing with every single beat / that a thousand other hearts
were falling asleep forever / on a day they never thought they would
and i know there are tribes of aborigines
that decide how and when they’ll die
after a hundred years or so / they walk into the desert alone
offer up their breath / and within two minutes
soar into a death / as beautiful as their life
and i was thinking i
will probably never be enlightened enough
to decide how i want to die
so this morning / i decided how i want to live
what i want to give / what kind of song i want to sing
now i’m no longer / looking at my days like they’re a cup
calling them half empty or half full
when they’ve always been enough
they’ll always be enough / to fill me up
if i stop thinking so much / and start drinking them up
until i get so drunk and high on my days
i’ll be walking up to strangers and saying things like
“hey, i know Jesus was born in a manger
but i woke at dawn today / to watch the earth’s horizon
give birth to true rising sun of god
and i can’t stop singing hallelujah”
…
i wanna write poems / in the tone
of your mother’s eyes / when she whispered your name
for the very first time
poems that will make you go home / pick up the phone
and call her
while i call mine to say / “you know those lines
on the kitchen wall / where i grew / taller and taller and taller
put a couple more there won’t you?
cause i’m growing up here”
no longer looking at my days / like they’re a cup
calling them enough
from now on / they’ll be overflowing
since now i’m knowing / it’s up to me
to fill them up.”
-andrea gibson “enough”
of course this exists. i remember now.
and it’s ticking, ticking away.
i don’t mind the way
the weather turns.
i don’t mind that
your heart still burns.
i don’t mind that
you’re where you should be,
alone.
“yellow butterfly
on the rocky path below,
fluttering lifeless
in the shimmering glow
of the phantom mountain -
took her heartache,
took her beautiful face
to a distant place.i could not tell the truth,
”
i could not tell the truth -
from the mirage.
laura veirs “phantom mountain”
lostrealist:The most beautiful suicide
On May 1, 1947, Evelyn McHale leapt to her death from the observation deck of the Empire State Building. Photographer Robert Wiles took a photo of McHale a few minutes after her death.
The photo ran a couple of weeks later in Life magazine accompanied by the following caption:
On May Day, just after leaving her fiancé, 23-year-old Evelyn McHale wrote a note. ‘He is much better off without me … I wouldn’t make a good wife for anybody,’ … Then she crossed it out. She went to the observation platform of the Empire State Building. Through the mist she gazed at the street, 86 floors below. Then she jumped. In her desperate determination she leaped clear of the setbacks and hit a United Nations limousine parked at the curb. Across the street photography student Robert Wiles heard an explosive crash. Just four minutes after Evelyn McHale’s death Wiles got this picture of death’s violence and its composure.
From McHale’s NY Times obituary, Empire State Ends Life of Girl, 20:
At 10:40 A. M., Patrolman John Morrissey of Traffic C, directing traffic at Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue, noticed a swirling white scarf floating down from the upper floors of the Empire State. A moment later he heard a crash that sounded like an explosion. He saw a crowd converge in Thirty-third Street.
Two hundred feet west of Fifth Avenue, Miss McHale’s body landed atop the car. The impact stove in the metal roof and shattered the car’s windows. The driver was in a near-by drug store, thereby escaping death or serious injury.
On the observation deck, Detective Frank Murray of the West Thirtieth Street station, found Miss McHale’s gray cloth coat, her pocketbook with several dollars and the note, and a make-up kit filled with family pictures.
The serenity of McHale’s body amidst the crumpled wreckage it caused is astounding. Years later, Andy Warhol appropriated Wiles’ photography for a print called Suicide (Fallen Body),
(via carryonsupertramp)
now i do as i please,
and i lie through my teeth,
someone might get hurt
but it won’t be me
she’ll probably feel cheap
but i’ll just feel free
and a little bit empty.
The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Lazy Dog.
I feel like I’ve been preparing for this image all my life.
The internet is over, everyone can go home
The internet is over, everyone can go home
THE INTERNET IS OVER, EVERYONE CAN GO HOME
(Source: theamericankid)
