Song The weight of the worldis love.Under the burdenof solitude,under the burdenof dissatisfaction the weight,the weight we carryis love. Who can deny?In dreamsit touchesthe body,in thoughtconstructsa miracle,in imaginationanguishestill bornin human—looks out of the heartburning with purity—for the burden of lifeis love, but we carry the weightwearily,and so must restin the arms of loveat last,must rest… Continue reading Allen Ginsberg
I want to hold youin a motel roomwith the sunshine stripeof venetian blindsacross your back.Or I want to dream of that. — Jewelle Gomez, from “At Night,” The Key To Everything: Classic Lesbian Love Poems. Edited by Gerry G. Pearlberg. (St. Martin’s Press; 1st edition December 15, 1994)
Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. — Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Random… Continue reading Hunter S. Thompson
We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your… Continue reading Hunter S. Thompson
When a poet digs himself into a hole, he doesn’t climb out. He digs deeper, enjoys the scenery, and comes out the other side enlightened. ― Criss Jami, Venus in Arms. (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform January 23, 2012)
We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers… and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two… Continue reading Hunter S. Thompson
How little we really know about the life all around us. Would we be so cavalier and ruthless with it if we understood it better? ― William Longgood
I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for. — Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters. (Holt Paperbacks; Reprint edition, May 29, 2007)
They say I mope too much but really I’m loudly dancing. I eat paper. It’s good for my bones. I play the piano pedal. I dance, I am never quiet, I mean silent. Some day I’ll love Frank O’Hara. I think I’ll be alone for a little while. — Frank O’Hara, “Katy,” The Collected Poems… Continue reading Frank O’Hara
There is always a sheet of paper. There is always a pen. There is always a way out. — H. L. Mencken
The Vale of Soul-Making 