pretty poem to start the day right. from mystic medusa.


When they ask to see your gods
show them lines
drawn delicately with veins
on the underside of a bird’s wing
tell them you believe
in giant sycamores mottled
and stark against a winter sky
and in night’s so frozen
stars crack open spilling
streams of molten ice to earth
and tell them how you drank
the holy wine of honeysuckle
on a warm spring day
and of the softness
of your mother
who never taught you
death was life’s reward
but who believed in the earth
and the sun
and in a million, million light years
of being.

i know, i have a thing for postmodern poetry (maybe this isn't that postmodern, after all. but the author kept it short, so that's a plus. i mean, long poems are usually just gilding the lily in a very unnecessary way. and unless it's beowulf or some other poem of yore i don't care).
so. stuff. i need to see again fight club. 
also, i don't understand women writing sappy blogs about love that's lost or graphic sex. the first ones fill me with the rage of lilith on crack (if he scorns you in whatever way, it means he's a bad person. the appropriate response is not crying and whining). the latter are just blah and vulgar.