Tag Archives: Fall

“Slow Hands” (Interpol)

Yeah but nobody searches
Nobody cares somehow
When the loving that you’ve wasted
Comes raining from a hapless cloud
And I might stop and look upon your face
Disappear in the sweet, sweet gaze
See the living that surrounds me
Dissipate in a violet place

Can’t you see what you’ve done to my heart
And soul?
This is a wasteland now

We spies
We slow hands
Put the weights around yourself
We spies
Oh yeah we slow hands
You put the weights all around yourself
now

I submit my incentive is romance
I watched the pole dance of the stars
We rejoice because the hurting is so painless
From the distance of passing cars
But I am married to your charms & grace

I just go crazy like the good old days
You make me want to pick up a guitar
And celebrate the myriad ways that I love you

Can you see what you’ve done to my heart
And soul?
This is a wasteland now

We spies
Yeah we slow hands
You put the weights around yourself
We spies
Oh, yeah we slow hands
Killer, for hire you know not yourself

We spies
We slow hands
You put the weights all around yourself
We spies
Oh yeah we slow hands
We retire like nobody else
We spies
Intimate slow hands killer
For hire you know not yourself
We spies
Intimate slow hands
You let the face slap around herself

J.W.

“Cottonwood Creek”

THIS SHALL HENCEFORTH BE READ IN A FAUX-N.P.R. VOICE, WARM AND MELLOW LIKE A FRESH CUP OF COFFEE:

Good morning and welcome to another edition of The New American Poetry Hour. I’m your host, Pretentious McDouchebag. On today’s episode we have an old poem by Jackson Williams and let me tell you now, dear listeners: they’re not that good. This poem is not that good and show the marks of a young man who learned very early on that he’s not that good with poetry. It written during the summer of 2006, eighteen years old and fresh out of high school. I apologize to those tuning in today. 

But mmmmmm, this is good java, no?

Old Glory

COTTONWOOD CREEK

Let me go back
to where existence began:
I believed by that water, no older than five,
that our dreams will happen
where our hearts feel good enough to thrive,
only after we rise up, and remember how we ran.
At night I still remember crickets by the thousands,
a plague upon the eardrums, turn up the television;
fresh, holy visions of summer days, spent under a bridge,
a B.B. gun for frogs, scattered rocks to throw,
a time we will remember, until the creek runs low.
August brought us rattlesnakes, and ghost stories
of old dead miners breathing under bedroom windows,
don’t wander and disappear alongside the creek,
ghosts and goblins, demons who would not speak,
and we would listen: Cottonwood Creek, what is yer secret?
We would spend days there, trapped in time,
then we’d surrender it, just barely in time;
my thoughts began here, I do believe,
and the more time passes, this much becomes clear:
this quiet haze began here in our history,
still I know less parts to what must be a mystery
of what always brings me back to here;
So terrorize me, hypnotize me,
lie to me and please be kind to me,
because the mind moves swift, like a river,
but it is a creek that forms my soul.

J.W.

Repossession: Reclaimed Slurs & Lexicography

Typewriter

harm·less drudg·ery

[Ed. note: this post contains language that is considered extremely inflammatory. Caveat lector.]

People forward language articles to me all the time–usually the same article multiple times, until my inbox is nothing but language links and plaintive requests from Wine.com to buy more booze, please. But no one forwarded me Talib Kweli’s recent Medium post on language, probably because it was about the history and uses of the word “nigger.” I asked one of my frequent-forwarders if he had seen the post. “I had,” he wrote, “but I figured you’d have already seen it. I was not going to be the one to forward you a post on the n-word.”

The n-word. I think about slurs on a regular basis, in part because I have to explain to people why they’re entered in some of their dictionaries. It’s not unusual for me to open my email in…

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Facebook Friends

Well, pilgrim ...

The world is changing / Always rearranging / From birth to the end / With my Facebook friends.

IMG_0215

It’s not that Jerry Lennart opposed Facebook. He spent a goodly amount of wasted time on it. It wasn’t that it was worse than Twitter or whatever new flavor inevitably followed. It was that word that followed Facebook. Friend. He had 4,273 of them, and no man, not even Muhammad Ali, could possibly have 4,273 friends, and if they were always “friending” and “unfriending,” how could they pass muster as friends? In other words, a “Facebook friend” was a term unto itself. Jerry read somewhere, quite possibly on Facebook, that it was a “place” where one grew to loathe people he had known for his entire life and befriend those who lived on the other side of the country. Or world, even. He’d been “friended” by a man in New Zealand whose…

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Terrifyingly Beautiful Photos of Incoming Storm Clouds

TwistedSifter

 

The sight of an incoming storm can be both beautiful and ominous. Below you will find a stunning collection of landscape and cityscape photos that demonstrate the awesome power of nature. Clicking any image will take you to the original source.

If any particular photo catches your eye, be sure to check out more from each respective photographer as their portfolios are truly a pleasure to browse through.

Now get your umbrellas out!

 

1. En route to Denver, Colorado, USA

distant-storm-cloud-seen-from-airplane-window

Photograph by HALEY LUNA
Tumblr | Website | Flickr | Instagram | Facebook | Google+ | Twitter

 

2. Near Booker, Texas, USA

The Booker Supercell

Photograph by MIKE OLBINSKI
Website | Flickr | Facebook | Twitter | Prints available

 

3. Timisora, Romania

shelf-cloud-over-timisoara-romania-ervin-boer

Photograph by ERVIN BOER

 

4. Grand Canyon, Arizona, USA

grand-canyon-lightning-storm-rolf-maeder

Photograph by ROLF MAEDER
Website | Blog | Twitter | Prints available

 

5. Daytona Beach, Florida…

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