Cami Park

Archive for January, 2010|Monthly archive page

Wop bam boom

In Beverage, Music, Poetry on January 31, 2010 at 12:58 am

Song of Solomon 2:5 Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.

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Doll Fight

In Film, Hobby, Photography on January 30, 2010 at 8:31 pm

Vodpod videos no longer available.Some dolls.

|||||teers your|||||heart,

In Art, How to, Poetry on January 29, 2010 at 12:12 pm

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Call out

In How to, List, Prose on January 28, 2010 at 9:37 pm

A writer, when he’s asked to discuss his craft, ought to get up and call out in a loud voice just the names of the writers he loves. I love Kafka, Flaubert, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoevsky, Proust, O’Casey, Rilke, Lorca, Keats, Rimbaud, Burns, E. Brontë, Jane Austen, Henry James, Blake, Coleridge. I won’t name any living writers. I don’t think it’s right.J. D. Salinger

This is the kind of bullshit you want

In Photography, Poetry, Prose on January 27, 2010 at 9:29 pm

freshness guaranteed

FRiGG‘s Law & Order Issue is ripped straight from the television and filled to bursting with lurid, inventive fiction and poetry from folks like Arlene Ang, Roxane Gay, Heather Austin, Sean Farragher, Kuzhali Manickavel, Tim Jones-Yelvington, and Dave Clapper, plus absolutely insane photography from Didi Wood. It is the kind of bullshit you want. You know you do.

A few things

In Film, Music, Poetry, Prose on January 27, 2010 at 5:49 pm

Happy birthday, Mozart


In Art, Household, Photography on January 24, 2010 at 12:02 am

Can one make works that are not of art? — Marcel Duchamp


In Drama, Poetry, Sex on January 23, 2010 at 6:46 pm

Submit to you —
could that be what you are saying?
the way ripples on the water
submit to an idling wing?

–Ono no Kamachi

Ain’t pretty

In Art, Drama, Music on January 22, 2010 at 12:18 am

Tom Humbertsone

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You will vanish

In Nutrition, Photography, Poetry on January 21, 2010 at 7:45 pm

On Leaving the Bachelorette Brunch
Rachel Wetzsteon

Because I gazed out the window at birds
doing backflips when the subject turned
to diamonds, because my eyes glazed over
with the slightly sleepy sheen your cake will wear,

never let it be said that I’d rather be
firing arrows at heart-shaped dartboards
or in a cave composing polyglot puns.
I crave, I long for transforming love

as surely as leaves need water and mouths seek bread.
But I also fear the colder changes
that lie in wait and threaten to turn moons of honey
to pools of molasses, broad front porches to narrow back gardens

and tight wings of friendship to flimsy things that break
when a gold band brightly implies, “leave early go home,
become one with the one the world has told you to
tend and treasure above all others.”

You love and that’s good.
You are loved and that’s superb.
You will vanish and reap some happy rewards.
But look at the birds.