blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
untitled by olivia bee on Flickr.
(Source: fortheloveofpretty.net, via prettystuff)
You didn’t read the instructions.
I sent you a letter, it said:
Love me a lot.
I thought at first you
were being discreet
cautious. I didn’t realize
you were simply dense - See, this is the part
where you’re supposed to take me in your arms,
don’t you get it?
Some people don’t know when to
quit but honey you
don’t know when to start. —
Karen Wurl, You Probably Don’t Know How To Hook Up My VCR Either
Today’s Legends of Slam post features Karen Wurl. With a dry, sarcastic, sensual style Karen is a unique voice in slam poetry. You can watch video of Karen from the 1996 National Poetry Slam here : http://youtu.be/r5QNuvix-ig . She has been on several Slam teams in numerous cities. In addition to her work as a poet Karen is also a playwright and teaches at Texas Tech University.
Still not over how beautiful this poem is. Hits the spot.
Poetry, as all art, is something that exists outside of the human experience; we come in contact with it, we aren’t its boss. It remains whether we choose to pick it up and touch it or not. — Anis Mojgani (via bostonpoetryslam)
(Source: commonlinejournal.com, via fuckyeahslampoems)
Click the + for a perfect dash
(Source: rachellrosales, via prettyfoods)
i’d be a happy puppy with this in front of me. looks delish.
(Source: Flickr / aegie, via prettyfoods)