It's just fascinating to me how the Bluesky team keeps taking active steps to look bad. They don't just randomly step on rakes. They go into the shed, lift the rake off where it's hanging on the wall, carefully place it on the grass, and then step full force on that motherfucker.
"Every Job Has a First Day" Slade was pulling minnows out of the dry river the day we met. Puddles, more or less, was what was left. But what could live wanted to and tried, treading narrow circles, a glide of brittle fins. He wore those rubber boots, though the sun was an anvil, and very little wet; he smiled, I remember that, his nickel smile right at me, his fingers letting fall the small fish muscles into a bag filled with yellow tap. I didn’t ask his name, or what it was he thought he was doing, but we talked, I listened as he taught me to relax the hand just enough. They can smell, he said, the oils our pores release when we tense to catch. You have to believe it, he said. You don’t mean any harm. —Rebecca Gayle Howell
"Every Job Has a First Day" by Rebecca Gayle Howell #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
"Sometimes a Voice (1)" Sometimes a voice — have you heard this? — wants not to be voice any longer, wants something whispering between the words, some rumour of its former life. Sometimes, even in the midst of making sense or conversation, it will hearken back to breath, or even farther, to the wind, and recognize itself as troubled air, a flight path still looking for its bird. I’m thinking of us up there shingling the boathouse roof. That job is all off balance — squat, hammer, body skewed against the incline, heft the bundle, daub the tar, squat. Talking, as we have always talked, about not living past the age of thirty with its labyrinthine perils: getting hooked, steady job, kids, business suit. Fuck that. The roof sloped upward like a take-off ramp waiting for Evel Knievel, pointing into open sky. Beyond it twenty feet or so of concrete wharf before the blue-black water of the lake. Danny said that he could make it, easy. We said never. He said case of beer, put up or shut up. We said
asshole. Frank said first he should go get our beer because he wasn’t going to get it paralysed or dead. Everybody got up, taking this excuse to stretch and smoke and pace the roof from eaves to peak, discussing gravity and Steve McQueen, who never used a stunt man, Danny’s life expectancy, and whether that should be a case of Export or O’Keefe’s. We knew what this was — ongoing argument to fray the tedium of work akin to filter vs. plain, stick shift vs. automatic, condom vs. pulling out in time. We flicked our butts toward the lake and got back to the job. And then, amid the squat, hammer, heft, no one saw him go. Suddenly he wasn’t there, just his boots with his hammer stuck inside one like a heavy-headed flower. Back then it was bizarre that, after all that banter, he should be so silent, so inward with it just to run off into sky. Later I thought, cool. Still later I think it makes sense his voice should sink back into breath and breath devote itself to taking in whatever air might have to say on that short flight between the roof and the rest of his natural life. —Don McKay
"Sometimes a Voice (1)" by Don McKay #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
Lorenz and Claude/Khalid as children. Lorenz is doing his signature pose of holding one hand up near his face. He's looking annoyed and a little confused at Claude who is playfully copying the pose.
[ #FE3H | #FEH | #Claurenz ]
Lorenz isn’t sure if this kid is copying him because he likes him or because he’s making fun of him. (The answer is both.)
that is entirely unacceptable.
Attiring
OC fanart of Edelgard getting dressed, not just fabrics, but also expectations.
#FE風花雪月 #FireEmblemThreeHouses
#ファイアーエムブレム風花雪月
#Edelgard #エーデルガルト
VERY COOL PERSON: It's four-twenty, you know what that means?
ME: Hell yeah! [starts shoving blackbirds into a pie]
"In and Out" (from "Having It out with Melancholy") The dog searches until he finds me upstairs, lies down with a clatter of elbows, puts his head on my foot. Sometimes the sound of his breathing saves my life—in and out, in and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . . —Jane Kenyon
"In and Out" (from "Having It out with Melancholy") by Jane Kenyon #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
I really need to stop checking instagram. It keeps feeding me reels and comics about aging huskies and dead dogs which is NOT helping the ol anticipatory grief
Black and white art of Snoopy as Guts, with armor and wielding a big sword, riding on top of a large Woodstock styled as Nosferatu Zodd with big wings and a broken horn, flying out of a portal. There’s a gothic logo on the top middle that says “SNOOPY.”
A Snoopy/Berserk commission
"Our Heron" Observation isn’t serious play. It is living serious. Same heron. It’s used to us, we are as twilight. When we walk down shore. Hand me the binoculars. I’ll hand them back. No, I can see it with my naked eye. Cup your ear. Drink what I say. Because what was that last squabble about? If we draw too near the heron it will go, meaning that for it we will have gone. I can’t see it every day all day. Sunlight has nothing to do with our sharing the sight of it. I want twilight. A heron is a “how to” book on twilight. Open anywhere. “How to” is a lonely phrase. Lonely is a start. Try saying so. Try making up and try inconclusion. Try twilight. Then try reading a book so good that every page is dog-eared and you know how safe the heron out there in the reeds feels just about now. Each twilight try the same heron the shade of twilight. Twilight hushes to such tones you have to look so carefully at what you see you become hushed yourself. Then a heron. Pulled forward by fish, the baiting saint of the shallows. Its elongated neck tapers to the beak that always precedes head and eye and ears, the beak being both an emissary for and a tender of the senses. Sometimes behind slender reed it would vanish to sight, we couldn’t make it out, and trying to was like trying to interpret a flyleaf. For twenty-odd minutes we’d watch for the heron while we brushed mosquitoes from one another’s faces. The mosquitoes would have drowned in our hearts if they could have. —William Olsen
"Our Heron" by William Olsen #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
black and white drawing of an underwater scene. a large bird sticking it's head into the water, surrounded by shocked fish
WHATS UP YOU WET MOTHERFUCKERS
"Charlie Chaplin Impersonates a Poet" The stage is set for imminent disaster. Here is the little tramp, standing On a stack of books in order To reach the microphone, the Poet he’s impersonating somehow Trussed and mumbling in a Tweed bundle at his feet. He opens his mouth: Tra-la! Out comes doves, incandescent bulbs, Plastic roses. Well, that’s that, Squirms the young professor who’s Coordinated this, No more visiting poets! His department head groans For the trap door. As it Swings away The tramp keeps on as if Nothing has occurred, A free arm mimicking A wing. —Cornelius Eady
"Charlie Chaplin Impersonates a Poet" by Cornelius Eady #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
"To the Young Who Want to Die" Sit down. Inhale. Exhale. The gun will wait. The lake will wait. The tall gall in the small seductive vial will wait will wait: will wait a week: will wait through April. You do not have to die this certain day. Death will abide, will pamper your postponement. I assure you death will wait. Death has a lot of time. Death can attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is just down the street; is most obliging neighbor; can meet you any moment. You need not die today. Stay here—through pout or pain or peskyness. Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use. Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring. —Gwendolyn Brooks
"To the Young Who Want to Die" by Gwendolyn Brooks #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
I like to imagine that Zohran Mamdani, Socialist African-born Muslim, was literally willed into existence by the collective psychosis of the Tea Party GOP over Obama, like the ectoplasm under NYC in Ghostbusters II
Screenshot of mobile bsky not loading
Screenshot of Lord of the Rings. The main character says "All right, then. Keep your secrets."
I bring a sort of Forbidden Vibe to InternalServerError that Rate Limit Exceeded don't really like
trying to post through it rn
we know
I never really followed the transformative side but it was SUCH a trip experiencing it as it aired lol. what a show indeeeed (…actually this reminds me that I never finished the last season oops)
uh oh time to rewatch that "sweet ophelia" hannibal vid for approximately the millionth time. never ever getting over 1:37 onward t b h www.youtube.com/watch?v=3l-7...
"Ars Lunga" I sit here perpetually inventing new people as if the population boom were not enough and not enough terror and problems God knows, but I know too, that’s the point. Never fear enough to match delight, nor a deep enough abyss, nor time enough, and there are always a few stars missing. I don’t want a new heaven and a new earth, only the old ones. Old sky, old dirt, new grass. Nor life beyond the grave, God help me, or I’ll help myself by living all these lives nine at once or ninety so that death finds me at all times and on all sides exposed, unfortressed, undefended, inviolable, vulnerable, alive. —Ursula K. Le Guin
"Ars Lunga" by Ursula K. Le Guin #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
to summarize, this week jd vance laysplained st augustine of hippo to the augustinian pope, while the pope visited hippo
Nothing says "America is Back Baby!" like "Allbirds became an AI hardware middleman because they wanted to pump their stock instead of going into bankruptcy, so they said they will find some computer chips somewhere, but can no longer sell shoes."
"Equinox" Now is the time of year when bees are wild and eccentric. They fly fast and in cramped loop-de-loops, dive-bomb clusters of conversants in the bright, late-September out-of-doors. I have found their dried husks in my clothes. They are dervishes because they are dying, one last sting, a warm place to squeeze a drop of venom or of honey. After the stroke we thought would be her last my grandmother came back, reared back and slapped a nurse across the face. Then she stood up, walked outside, and lay down in the snow. Two years later there is no other way to say, we are waiting. She is silent, light as an empty hive, and she is breathing. —Elizabeth Alexander
"Equinox" by Elizabeth Alexander #poetry #NationalPoetryMonth
Absolute creature
Repeating "Oh no. Toilet" to myself all day.
when will my ability to Write A Goddamn Comment return from the war......😔
I want to PET…it’s literally a perfect lil creature
Funny faildaughter. Witch of Calamity (for her well-being). The Messi of Misstep