Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder ‘why, why, why?’
Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.
Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle (via larmoyante)


Your daughter is ugly.
She knows loss intimately,
carries whole cities in her belly. 

As a child, relatives wouldn’t hold her.
She was splintered wood and sea water.
They said she reminded them of the war. 

On her fifteenth birthday you taught her
how to tie her hair like rope 
and smoke it over burning frankincense. 

You made her gargle rosewater
and while she coughed, said
macaanto girls like you shouldnt smell
of lonely or empty. 

You are her mother.
Why did you not warn her,
hold her like a rotting boat
and tell her that men will not love her
if she is covered in continents,
if her teeth are small colonies,
if her stomach is an island,
if her thighs are borders? 

What man wants to lay down 
and watch the world burn 
in his bedroom?

Your daughter’s face is a small riot,
her hands are a civil war,
a refugee camp behind each ear,
a body littered with ugly things, 

but God, 
doesn’t she wear
the world well.

"My old man used to say
a little rain never hurt anybody.

There were downpours
at his funeral.”

- Don Share

"the flesh covers the bone 

and they put a mind 

in there and 

sometimes a soul, 

and the women break 

vases against the walls 

and the men drink too 


and nobody finds the 


but keep 


crawling in and out 

of beds. 

flesh covers 

the bone and the 

flesh searches 

for more than 


there’s no chance 

at all: 

we are all trapped 

by a singular 


nobody ever finds 

the one. 

the city dumps fill 

the junkyards fill 

the madhouses fill 

the hospitals fill 

the graveyards fill 

nothing else 


- Charles Bukowski

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