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filmnoirsbian:

No. 17

courtorderedcake:

I don’t pray to a God in a cathedral,

I worship the God’s that walked through the wreckage of their temples.

I worship the survivors,

I worship the hands hardened by work, ethereal and corporal reminders of the self.

I reach for their open palms, I let their treasures swallow any doubts.

I worship the persecuted and the persevering;

I worship the teeth and bone, blood and flesh, heart and soul.

I worship their reach,

Like the tide : pulling -

Ebb and flow, strength and vulnerability.

I worship the forward focus, and the pillars of salt.

I worship the altars we break bread on,

I worship the feasts with laughter and the warmth of hope.

I worship the world, the sun, the moon, the feeling of wet grass or sand between my toes.

I worship the taste of the storm before the rain,

I worship the rolling thunder, and lightning in my fingertips when someone touches my body like the swirling clouds.

I know no church or confessional :

I worship the long table that seats every and any of the hungry.

I sing and dance with those who I haven’t met, guardians who heard the call, those who were lost too soon, and those who left right on time.

I raise my hands

I manifest

This prayer is too big for stained glass prisons

I enfold us

I hold us

I love

I pray in this way.

smakkabagms:

I can bear anything, I tell myself,
even the heart with its terrible eyes
root-wrapped, dried as a husk or
bundled wormwood leaves

I can pass as the wind does,
I can forgive the sightless, wounded
doe-gaze of a world that forgets me,
dark as a cave in the land of occult

and superstition. Where I sense in
myself some hidden, centuries-old
knowledge, nothing stirs, my tongue is
sap swallowed or herbs culled

in hellebore tangles of the palm, so
limp and human, its own grip ages
beyond its brief grasp - how much
time will I have? This, too, becomes

something to carry, the body’s meat
worked by the plows of longing, of having
once been something, of having once
spoken, only to learn that, through the din

of wallowing, rowing, unshaped breadth

you were never heard at all. Memories,
shadow-relics, all my attention to mystery
and errant dreams - what becomes of me
now? I survived, but it was no victory.

Everything is hewn by the landscape
of some incurable past, the body droops its
thicket into obscurable eaves, but there are
some things beyond avowal or recollection

I think I might be one of them, my dress
is like the dead, a rotting tentacle of some ancient,
knotted tree; my name is unimportant,
a gnat I once hoped I could fathom bigger

and bigger until it felt touched in the world,
a live thing breathing inside it, possessed and
bewinged. This, too, endured. Fruitless,
and estranged like so many dreams distressed

and buried. I cannot admit that I am tired,
that my ink turns invisible, a desperate vying
for sound; I cannot admit that, somewhere,
I still hear the waves of unknown oceans

break on shorelines I will never see.
I cannot admit that I desire to see them.

I can only say that I bear it, I recognize it all
briefly, as a stranger amongst loveless faces
must do. I bear this because I must. Here,

another twilight, absent of ceremony,
I pass as the wind does, impalpable and
like a phantom, carved from its own
wish for reaching, or rest.

moonlusts:

naked iphones r beautiful but at what cost

nirv-asana:

melannism:

nirv-asana:

men give themselves way too much credit for being the bare minimum.

for being polite

for not cheating

for not cat calling

for respecting a woman’s wishes

for waiting

for listening

for not being blatantly disrespectful 

for being non-violent 

for being a “man” and not a boy.