And Yes I Said Yes I Will Yes.

I half wish to find a comfortable cave and live there for the whole of my existence but as that is an unlikely occurrence- I suppose I should join the rest of the human race and begin a blog. That doesn't mean I look down on any of you less. I am simply proving I can do it better. The Name is Olivia. I live the whole world wide. I like conspiracies, beautiful language, and things that give me leverage. Memento Mori: I'm ready for what's next.

(All writing published here is owned by me unless cited otherwise.)


In Omnia Paratus   I'm Bland Looking. Like Rice.
Reblogged from talkativolive

talkativolive:

You’re a sadist too, I know.
But I don’t waste much time thinking about you
Not when I am clamped all around-
Not when you are
Four fingers deep,
I mean
I’m a mess but I love chaos
Like you love evasion
Like I want power
Like you want me
And this is the way we fuck.
We fuck ourselves clean.

shortening days

Cigarettes left his lungs like winter trees;
Hibernating behind grey-lidded eyes for months in lethargy
They told me it feels like
Walking home after dark: fresh and secret
Finally allowed to ignore the aches of nostalgia
But I don’t know what death does to a person
Last dream, last sweat, last three movements of the chest.
There was water in the lake now frozen, where has the water gone?

Reblogged from talkativolive
talkativolive:

“Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.”
—	The Iliad, Homer

talkativolive:

“Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men. Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.”
— The Iliad, Homer

(via dragonswolvesandvalyriansteel)

My friend Nancy tells me she’ll be buried on this summer’s hill where daysprings meet the aging farmer before dawn has torn the covers
from the night; where beauty is at home. And so it will be when
Nancy’s three mean daughters have grown old themselves
and one day travel long to stand beside her grave, they
will have to run the gauntlet of this grace, come face
to face with what is beautiful in what we have
not made, stand on the highest rise
above the valley
thinking what a thing a lifetime is.
Let not even I imply she should have saved her money, spent the eleven thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars on Lipitor and long term care insurance, thus assuring these three daughters—not even really nice as children—would burn her body up and pay some stranger to sprinkle the ashes (that is what they will call us then) out on the Atlantic, because, “Mother liked the sea.”
The sea: that grave no one will frown if you don’t visit.

There are not many ways to bring our children home.

Linda McCullough Moore, “Hawthorn Mountain”

I never saw my father kiss anyone
not even my mother. Surely I’d remember—
a shadow image in my blood: him kissing
someone somewhere for some reason
even if only for duty.

(In that image he bends his head to a child
or smaller adult, touches a wrist with one finger,
slides his arm around a shoulder.
In the shadow he bobs his head near her cheek:
but do his lips really touch skin?)

What I can’t believe is that I was conceived
without kisses. There must have been kisses—
even if they floated out the window
to be smashed by the bombers rumbling overhead
nine months before my birth.

Here’s what I’d like to believe: before
bombs and blackouts, he was the sweetest
smoocher, the easiest man to laugh with
when someone like me strolled with him
beside the sea, her arm tucked warmly into his.

Judith Barrington, “Before”
If, when the moon has drizzled to the other side of the river, you are still
huddled on a bench made of skinny green slats by the river’s edge, you will
sing to yourself a song comprised of braided floral wreathes and shepherds’
names. The island hasn’t shifted since last evening, you will sing, even if I like to
pretend it has, as Manhattan raises its shimmering head like a newborn
lamb in the grey light. By then, your legs will be stiffened into the shape
of a wishbone, doubled against your chest. Birds will warble their aubades
in tones as yellow as the sun you imagine crowning on the other side
of the city. Night was the kind of friend whose shoulder you could press your
face into, the kind who would say Here, now, cry, arms closing around
you tight and strong. Night was a blue velvet rabbit’s hole you allowed
yourself to fall through, soft fibers caterpillering your skin. Night has left
its imprint: tracks of night across your cheeks, the shadow cast
behind you as gather your legs in the cool morning light.
Christine Marshall, “Elegy for Night”
Like a summer with a thousand Julys,
You intoxicate my soul with your eyes
Haven Gillespie & J. Fred Coots (“You Go to My Head”)

I got lost in the night, without the light
of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me
I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness. Pablo Neruda, “Sonnet LVII”
A white horse with one red eye wings toward you, red tulips suck your air, burning
hair rises from the ash. Day grows hotter with every page. The sidewalk sizzles
when you flick your sweat. Finally the light begins to blue at the edges. Upstairs,
the man who watches news all night scrapes the window open for some evening
air. When you were young, you ate the mercury from the thermometer.
Ran your fingers through the white candle flame. You think of heat as a molten
backbone helping you stand. Imagine yourself in wings, flying up and up,
chasing the sun as it sets.
Christine Marshall, “Elegy for Day”
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
From Blossoms; Li-Young Lee
Stephen Alcorn (more portraits of -predominantly white male- authors&writers at alcorngallery.com

Stephen Alcorn (more portraits of -predominantly white male- authors&writers at alcorngallery.com

The first day of spring was once the time for taking the young virgins into the fields, there in dalliance to set an example in fertility for Nature to follow. Now we just set the clock an hour ahead and change the oil in the crankcase. EB white
Gabriel García Márquez with snow in his hair

Gabriel García Márquez with snow in his hair

The San Francisco botanical gardens, basically the coolest place for two reasons:
1. Because they’re free every single morning from like 7 to 9 
2. Because they hold gods

The San Francisco botanical gardens, basically the coolest place for two reasons:
1. Because they’re free every single morning from like 7 to 9 
2. Because they hold gods