She is born to blossom.
Her painted ghost wanders,
Haunting the meadow
And whispering to trees.
She is born to blossom.
Her painted ghost wanders,
Haunting the meadow
And whispering to trees.
venus transverses the sky
planes crisscross the globe
with a sneeze, i mumble a false prayer
like the beautiful lotus-bud arguing with the wild dandelion
the night stays with us, we stay with it too
not knowing what new name to give to our children
who are beginning to ask: “what is in a name anyway?”
Dolly pondered from her place at the kitchen sink, the room littered with dishes. She hadn’t remembered buying so many dishes and wondered how they would fit inside her cabinets, which were too small. Each dish needed washing, which brought her back to her everyday question, is this what it’s like, standing alone at the sink while the child drools?
i know queerness doesn’t exist
for a person with large breasts
or for a person who can’t decide
if they’re in love with masculinity
or the freedom it affords you
careless desire for love
forbidden intimacy
my anxiety abated
two perfect halves
naked soft and sleek
nightmare brusque dark
it has to go somewhere
why not your clavicle?
she wishes she could stay
vulnerable: open like a barn door breeze
beasts shuffle in, smell sweet H.
the moon cuts through the dark
you trace small circles
across the top of my hand
with your middle finger
men call the golden steppes of russia
death on a rocky crag
how many blessings to see this land
I’ve always been this way: open, friendly, disarming, talkative. Whatever you want to call it, it’s an act. I'm as calculated as a new student on the first day of school. See, I’ve trained myself to ward off dangers with words.
His name is Bobby, but often, he responds to the call of Booby. We are grown, up, but he stays Booby to the best of us. Who would name a cat Bobby or Booby? Beats me. Like orange and its equal-opposite.
blue like Drano / sun-washed / sitting / tested /rippled midsection / conspired against / harmless / bonded to the wall / between his lips / nothing to hold it
“ … the reality is that Diana, and the Wonder Woman film itself, cannot escape the male gaze.”
Tessa tiptoed over to the bag. Its presence was heavy in the room. Her hand moved, delicately, towards the zipper, as if she were disarming a bomb. She didn’t know if she wanted to see what was inside, and yet, she moved the zipper along its designated path, her hand acting of its own accord.
Of these three words (liar, whore, communist), it was the middle one which gave Sheila the greatest pride. In another world, another life, she would have worn it as a badge of honor. But it was November 1961- a full two years before the philandering President of the United States was shot to death in Texas- and a lying communist whore was not widely perceived as a great thing to be.
Gabriel Ricard celebrates six years of Captain Canada’s Movie Rodeo with reviews of The Incredibles 2 and Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom, as well as films from Kurosawa and Burt Reynolds.
They said they didn’t want me to die here either – at least not before we got our cannolis and tiramisu. I assured them that I meant Boston and not the restaurant. But Boston was the only place I’d ever lived, I say, and I loved it, but I didn’t want to die without having lived somewhere else. I tell them heading south and west.
Paul Rudd is a being composed of charisma and genial good humor, and that’s never more apparent then when he shares the screen with two of the most pissy and uninteresting characters in all of the Marvel Cinematic Universe: Hank Pym, played by Michael Douglas, and Hope van Dyne, played by Evangeline Lilly. But even Rudd’s considerable charm isn’t enough to distract from the fact that the only people worth paying attention to: Hannah John-Kamen’s Ghost and Michelle Pfeiffer’s Janet van Dyne, get the least screen time. I’d rather have spent two hours with Randall Park’s put-upon FBI agent.
Gotti isn’t a good movie, but I urge people to see it. It's rare to see something this incompetent in theaters, starring an actor as well-known as John Travolta. Travolta's credit inexplicably appears over footage of the real Gotti, forcing the audience to think "Well, they don't really look alike", before they've had a chance to get invested. The rest of the film offers scenes that have no connection to those before or after them. Worse, you'd have to be an expert on the infamous mob boss to understand half of what is going on. Travolta tries his best, though.