Manskeetr

This is real and it’s done.

Printed on legit paper too.

1 day ago -

3

Dream gurl.

(Source: livingdeadgirl143)

3 days ago -

18

(via knowyourmeme)

3 days ago -

214

Approaching a Totality

I am on an airplane and
from behind its small window
I see the lights of the
mid-sized cities and towns.

I am grateful for this view.
I am grateful for the
     miniature Applebees, Chilis,
     Best Buys, small gas stations too,
          probably.

These lights are guiding
people into situations—
they have shown where to
make love,
where to speak and read and yell,
where to put children into beds.

I bet that these people believe
in the redemptive power of love, or
the freeing nature of truth—
but maybe they are a little cynical too.

So the plane veers away,
and so I veer away—
lines are traced, retraced,
forgotten.

I lay my palms out
across the window, the
sky, the black ground.

6 days ago

My old college dorm in the 70s

6 days ago -

2

New College of Florida in the early 70s

6 days ago -

2

radonwolf:

The Free Library of Philadelphia is holding speed dating events at several of their branches just in time for Valentine’s Day. Unsure of how to react to my own excitement over this news.

“Participants are encouraged to bring a book they loved, hated, or just recently read to use as an icebreaker.”

Ooooooooooooook Ok

1 week ago -

4

A Salute to Mister Yates

by Andre Dubus
Black Warrior Review, Volume 15.2, Spring 1989.

Richard Yates is one of our great writers with too few readers, and no matter how many readers he finally ends up with, they will still be too few, unless there are hundreds of thousands in most nations of the world. I have been his friend for thirty-three years, and he has most often needed money, and has never complained to me about that, or about anything else either. For several years in the seventies and eighties, Dick lived in an apartment in Beacon Street in Boston. It is a street with trees and good old brick buildings. He lived on the second floor, in two rooms. The front room was where he wrote and slept. A door at the far end of it, behind his desk, opened to the kitchen; and adjacent to that was the room I never saw him enter. I suppose his youngest daughter, Gina, slept there when she came to visit. Gina’s paintings and drawings hung in the first room, above the bed against one wall, and his desk facing another.