“Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,’ Holly advised him. ‘That was Doc’s mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can’t give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they’re strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That’s how you’ll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You’ll end up looking at the sky.”
― Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s: A Short Novel and Three Stories
when your mind races at night, take it all in. have a mad-hatter moment. let your thoughts buzz and create a stinging honeycomb of thoughts. lick them, ingest, swallow them whole. then, when you’re so full and all the honey rushes to your head- you’ll be able to fall asleep a queen bee. dreams dripping with sweet, quiet and all things nice.
love keeps me up at night. sweet dreams. x.
“Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the “good life”, whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.” Hunter S. Thompson
“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.” -Rainer Rilke
i woke up to gray sky. feels like a storm is on its way. at least i have coffee, toast and a cozy apartment. i’m working on some poetry and i should have something up by the end of the day. i have three new pablo neruda books to go through. they were valentine’s day presents and a lovely gift. his poetry is like music and has a way of leading me back to memories i’ve forgotten. i’m trying to find a way for this gray to be beautiful but thus far i’ve been burning candles and praying for snow. x
Each mind is its own place
Mine a motel in Tempe, Arizona
A nomad A nudist
Pacing the lot tracing ghost lines,
Hunchback and Sunburnt.
A pool collecting Cracker Jack rings
Hair ties Band-aids
The hair in the drain.
An old sheet pinned to the clothesline
The dirty wind that soils it warm,
The desert dark pulling shadow-covers
Over grand-canon back alleys,
Mining through trash.
And the homesick sand thumbing
Spine silhouettes Ghost carriages
original poetry by Hogan