between the shadow and the soul

I am a New England native. The hills, trees, and the red brick soiled by time and memory have called me back home from my time among the the desert mountains and neon.

0rient-express:

Untitled | by Eden Li.
Where does it lead?

(via 0rient-express)

asylum-art:

Street Art byDavid Zinn

Pretty cool.

(via littlefallingdiamonds)

will bring you people
with its ring,
people who do not know what to do with
their time
and they will ache to
infect you with
this
from a distance
(although they would prefer
to actually be in the same room
to better project their nullity upon
you).

the telephone is needed for
emergency purposes only.

these people are not
emergencies, they are
calamities.

I have never welcomed the ring of a
telephone.

"hello," I will answer
guardedly.

"this is Dwight."

already you can feel their imbecile
yearning to invade.
they are the people-fleas that
crawl the
psyche.

"yes, what is it?"

"well, I’m in town tonight and
I thought …”

"listen, Dwight, I’m tied up, I
can’t …”

"well, maybe another
time?”

"maybe not …"

each person is only given so many
evenings
and each wasted evening is
a gross violation against the
natural course of
your only
life;
besides, it leaves an aftertaste
which often lasts two or three days
depending upon the
visitor.

the telephone is only for
emergency purposes.

it has taken me
decades
but I have finally found out
how to say
“no.”

now
don’t be concerned for them,
please:
they will simply dial another
number.

it could be
yours.

"hello," you will
say.

and they will say,
“this is Dwight.”

and then
you
be
the kind
understanding
soul.

by Charles Bukowski (from The Last Night of the Earth Poems)

jam

that Harbor Freeway south through the downtown
area—-I mean, it can simply become
unbelievable.

last Friday evening I was sitting there
motionless behind a wall of red taillights,
there wasn’t even first gear movement
as masses of exhaust fumes
greyed the evening air, engines over-
heated
and there was the smell of a clutch
burning out
somewhere—-
it seemed to come from ahead of me—-
from that long slow rise of freeway where
the cars were working
from first gear to neutral
again and again
and from neutral back to
first gear.

on the radio I heard the news
of that day
at least 6 times, I was
well versed in world
affairs.
the remainder of the stations played a
thin, sick music.
the classical stations refused to come in
clearly
and when they did
it was a stale repetition of standard and
tiresome works.

I turned the radio off.
a strange whirling began in my
head—-it circled behind the forehead, clock-
wise, went past the ears and around to the
back of the head, then back to the forehead
and around
again.
I began to wonder, is this what happens
when one goes
mad?

I considered getting out of my car.
I was in the so-called fast
lane.
I could see myself out there
out of my car
leaning against the freeway divider,
arms folded.
then I would slide down to a sitting
position, putting my head between
my legs.

I stayed in the car, bit my tongue, turned
the radio back on, willed the whirling to
stop
as I wondered if any of the others had to
battled against their
compulsions
as I did?

then the car ahead of me
MOVED
a foot, 2 feet, 3 feet!

I shifted to first gear …
there was MOVEMENT!
then I was back in neutral
BUT
we had moved from 7 to
ten feet.

hearing the world news for the
7th time,
it was still all bad
but all of us listening,
we could handle that too
because we knew
that there was nothing worse than
looking at
that same license plate
that same dumb head sticking up
from behind the headrest
in the car ahead of you
as time dissolved
as the temperature gauge leaned
more to the right
as the gas gauge leaned
more to the left
as we wondered
whose clutch was burning
out?

we were like some last, vast
final dinosaur
crawling feebly home somewhere,
somehow, maybe
to
die.

by Charles Bukowski (from The Last Night of the Earth Poems)

dailykos:

84 years ago today, Shel Silverstein was born.

Shel Silverstein’s had it right.

And the tragic pageantry that is fall begins in earnest.

Frank Armstrong Photographs.

Wood, wind, the sea, and you.

(via ourspacebetween)

asylum-art:

Noé Sendas

Berlin based artist Noé Sendas‘ exploration of loss is a central motif underlying in his repertoire. Noe’s work explores the theoretical and material constructs of the body, the observer’s perception mechanisms and the discursive potential of exhibition methods.

Berlin based artist Noé Sendas‘ exploration of loss is a central motif underlying in his repertoire. Noe’s work explores the theoretical and material constructs of the body, the observer’s perception mechanisms and the discursive potential of exhibition methods.

(via misskaciemarie)

(via rcrx)

(via rcrx)

(via rcrx)