“Once, Picasso was asked what his paintings meant. He said, “Do you ever know what the birds are singing? You don’t. But you listen to them anyway.” So, sometimes with art, it is important just to look.”—Marina Abramović
“The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream.”—Don DeLillo, White Noise.
If the world was round, but only partially. Columbus could have been right if he grew up on the flat side. Maybe he would have still fallen through the cracks Of an acid globe dimpled With craters and ridges examined closely they say your skin is the result of an improper technique. A metaphor for something man-made and hand-sanded. They say your skin (when worn by us) Is something to be healed- to you It is just your coat. Pared and peeled into fragments A Pangaea of chipped paint lining Soft insides and spider veins The earth cradles iron as hot as the sun at its core Your heart is made of something much more tender.
I get really pissed off when people think Zayn isn’t the hottest member of One Direction like why are peoples tastes so bad? Why would you pick the frog prince Harry? Why do you think that blonde hobbit is cute? You could swap Liam with an Enchilada and it would take 45 minutes to notice, and whats that other ones name?
I judged them very carefully, as though
I’d been given the charge to determine
which are good or bad, and they were all good,
even the slightly overripe ones with bruises
had a bitter ferment that only brightened
the scent. And the too young ones, firm
and slightly sour, not yet softened by the sun.
And the ripe ones, which felt like biting into
my own flesh, slightly carnivorous.
They had been elegant in the tree, tiny coquettes
blushing more and more until I picked them,
then they were minimalist and matte-colored
in wooden bowls, so barely furred one couldn’t
help but clothe them, enclose them with your hand,
caress each one thoroughly before taking a bite,
exploring the handsome freckles left
from some minor blight.
Now I stand under the tree and
pluck them one after the other.
Each one tastes different, like a mind having
erratic thoughts. Going into the trance
halfway between eating and thinking,
the thought of an apricot, the apricot of a thought,
whose goodness occurs over time, so that
some had been better earlier, others soon
would become correct, I mean ripe.
At this point, I would like to remind everyone exactly what Martin Luther King did, and it wasn’t that he “marched” or gave a great speech.
My father told me with a sort of cold fury, “Dr. King ended the terror of living in the south.”
Please let this sink in and and take my word and the word of my late father on this. If you are a white person who has always lived in the U.S. and never under a brutal dictatorship, you probably don’t know what my father was talking about.
But this is what the great Dr. Martin Luther King accomplished. Not that he marched, nor that he gave speeches.
He ended the terror of living as a black person, especially in the south.