by Brian Barker
When they ask me to account for my time on earth,
I will confess: I loved tomato pie
& too much beer, waking up in the blue
beam of the television, my head in your lap,
how I could hear the last birds
gathering beneath your skin. You smelled like mint
& the cold blade of the kitchen knife, & our laughter
left teethmarks those long July days,
as the dark beyond our door culled its armies,
a combustion of insects & heat
hitching our house to the blind grasses, the pasture
sliding away like a calm sea.
Love, what leaned in & drank from the eyes of the horses
as their silhouettes passed like slow ships?
What folded its thin wings & sank into our hearts?
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Annie and Alvy
The scene where Annie and Alvy go to the bookstore together wearing the same outfit always makes me so happy. This was deliberate, right? There's no way it couldn't be. How romantic.
This is romantic in the same way.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Funtown
King said in an interview that this photograph was taken as he tried to explain to his daughter Yolanda why she could not go to Funtown, a whites-only amusement park in Atlanta. King claims to have been tongue-tied when speaking to her. “One of the most painful experiences I have ever faced was to see her tears when I told her Funtown was closed to colored children, for I realized the first dark cloud of inferiority had floated into her little mental sky.”
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
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