Log Date

A Daily dose of Photography-inspired Poetry.

  1. Photo post

    Look out, assholes. Love is coming.   Hide your head in the fridge because you’re in for some merciless chaos raining down from the sky.   This Vulcan fire cares nothing for your job or your health or your plans or the commitments you’re about to leave behind. Love is a gibbous ape scraping his claws across the chalkboard of your rational mind, his creamnut teeth mash through the pulpy coronary fruit of your loins, his swaying arms knock all the shit off all the shelves his fists delve into your sleepy smile, and while you dream of distant starstruck eyes his kneecap is boning you awake and you take it.   Love is coming.   His drool splashes acidic on the earth to bring forth hypnotic flowers. His tongue stretches on for miles. He licks a foot and sticks it to your face and it smells like the childhood you never had.   He says, “Hey, it’s not that bad, You’re still in control. You’re the boss. It’s not like you’re in for the loss of every reasonable thought and sound decision, I’m just gonna make a slight incision right here next to this ventricle, then inject a mild dose of his or her saliva. Odds are good that you’ll survive until the DNA unfolds and every thought you used to think you owned will take on the hue and luster of her hair, mixed to a soundtrack of her softest secret moans, while something like her scent keeps drifting in, and if you’re lucky it’s over before it begins.   Kill yourself now,” says the ape. But you think this time there’s a fighting chance. Go ahead and start running, The ape prefers a moving target.   Love is coming. And there’s nothing you can do but hang onto your rocks, see if you can outlast the screaming fits and torrential bliss. You are in his cage and the ape is flipping through the pages of a book of poems. The door isn’t locked, in fact it’s open wide yet you stay huddled in the straw, eyelids on fire, dreaming of a time when you weren’t so unbearably happy. ***
Photo Credit: ESO/Y. BeletskyWords by Josh Wagner

    Look out, assholes. Love is coming.
     
    Hide your head in the fridge because you’re in for
    some merciless chaos raining down from the sky.
     
    This Vulcan fire cares nothing for
    your job or your health
    or your plans or the commitments
    you’re about to leave behind.
    Love is a gibbous ape
    scraping his claws across
    the chalkboard of your rational mind,
    his creamnut teeth mash
    through the pulpy coronary
    fruit of your loins,
    his swaying arms knock all the shit
    off all the shelves
    his fists delve into your sleepy smile,
    and while you dream of distant
    starstruck eyes his kneecap is
    boning you awake
    and you take it.
     
    Love is coming.
     
    His drool splashes acidic on the earth
    to bring forth hypnotic flowers.
    His tongue stretches on for miles.
    He licks a foot and sticks it
    to your face and it smells like
    the childhood you never had.
     
    He says, “Hey, it’s not that bad,
    You’re still in control. You’re the boss.
    It’s not like you’re in for the loss
    of every reasonable thought and sound
    decision, I’m just gonna make a slight
    incision right here next to this ventricle,
    then inject a mild dose
    of his or her saliva. Odds are good
    that you’ll survive until the
    DNA unfolds and every
    thought you used to think you owned
    will take on the hue and luster of her
    hair, mixed to a soundtrack
    of her softest secret moans, while
    something like her scent
    keeps drifting in,
    and if you’re lucky
    it’s over before it begins.
     
    Kill yourself now,”
    says the ape.

    But you think this time
    there’s a fighting chance.
    Go ahead and start running,
    The ape prefers a moving target.
     
    Love is coming.
    And there’s nothing you can do
    but hang onto your rocks,
    see if you can outlast the
    screaming fits and torrential bliss.
    You are in his cage and the ape
    is flipping through the pages
    of a book of poems.
    The door isn’t locked,
    in fact it’s open wide
    yet you stay huddled
    in the straw,
    eyelids on fire,
    dreaming of a time
    when you weren’t
    so unbearably
    happy.

     ***

    Photo Credit: ESO/Y. Beletsky

    Words by Josh Wagner

  2. Photo post

    I’m sick of fantasyand reality—how they’re kepton separate plates;
Let me live in the gapwhere their tracks overlap, in a field where plus and minus poles exchange roles, where they mingle and boil into clouds to make broth of the soil,while
the mud drops slideup your cheekand squeeze into to your eyeas you welcome backthe widening green gaps in the sky.
***
Photo by Vittorio Poli
Words by Josh Wagner

    I’m sick of fantasy
    and reality—
    how they’re kept
    on separate plates;

    Let me live in the gap
    where their tracks overlap,
    in a field where plus and minus
    poles exchange roles,
    where they mingle
    and boil into clouds 
    to make broth of the soil,
    while

    the mud drops slide
    up your cheek
    and squeeze into to your eye
    as you welcome back
    the widening green
    gaps in the sky.

    ***

    Photo by Vittorio Poli

    Words by Josh Wagner

  3. Photo post

    They say Omar still haunts these cobbled streets, with shotgun bent beside his  hobbled limp; for that he dared to love and only briefest moments to possess,  the bitter sting of night from pavement’s heat, to his long-tempered cold redress. Where Swearengen’s curse still echoes on dark roads from  dirt to blackened tar, solidifying  passage from the vagrant to his host; that justice begs the unjust do his worst until one holy bullet hails his hearse and leaves our pulses satisfied. From troubled Atreus to Tony’s Bada Bing, From Holmes to House where lonely minds solve pathogenic crimes, From Yoric’s bones to Fisher’s pale unrest, the bloodof kings and peasantsuncorks its endless flowbeyond new Romeinto her dusty bowland arthritic carnival. So long as Able’s ghost pursues, in forms as shapeless as the night, where man will take up words against arms as muscle swellswithin its skin to flesh out passages that fevered muses write, and take a stranger  sideways stage— these dancing screens of light.
*** 
2012 by Josh Wagner

    They say Omar still haunts
    these cobbled streets, with
    shotgun bent beside his 
    hobbled limp; for that
    he dared to love and only
    briefest moments to possess, 
    the bitter sting of night
    from pavement’s heat,
    to his long-tempered cold redress.

    Where Swearengen’s curse still
    echoes on dark roads from 
    dirt to blackened tar, solidifying 
    passage from the vagrant
    to his host; that justice
    begs the unjust do his worst
    until one holy bullet
    hails his hearse
    and leaves our pulses satisfied.

    From troubled Atreus to
    Tony’s Bada Bing,
    From Holmes to House where
    lonely minds solve pathogenic crimes,
    From Yoric’s bones to Fisher’s
    pale unrest, the blood
    of kings and peasants
    uncorks its endless flow
    beyond new Rome
    into her dusty bowl
    and arthritic carnival.

    So long as Able’s ghost pursues, 
    in forms as shapeless as the night,
    where man will take up words
    against arms as muscle swells
    within its skin
    to flesh out passages
    that fevered muses write,
    and take a stranger 
    sideways stage—
    these dancing screens of light.

    *** 

    2012 by Josh Wagner

  4. Photo post

    THE TRANSIT OF VENUS When I let go I burn.  My fingers uncurl and your breath  rushes in. And in the wake of my orbit, strung out over the void of lost days, visible only in the hours  where your shadow harbors mine, do I grasp the  arrows of displaced time, haunted by  the way in which the slightest change in variables might  have hurtled me into your core, your cavern of space, your intake of breath, with the bliss of a moth careening toward death. How I wish you could have seen me then, veiled in the dark unbound by  sentient eyes, a sun to my own tender moon.

    THE TRANSIT OF VENUS

    When I let go I burn. 
    My fingers uncurl and your breath 
    rushes in.

    And in the wake of my orbit,
    strung out over the void
    of lost days,

    visible only in the hours 
    where your shadow
    harbors mine,

    do I grasp the 
    arrows of displaced time,
    haunted by 
    the way
    in which
    the slightest
    change in variables might 
    have hurtled me into
    your core,
    your cavern of space,
    your intake of breath,

    with the bliss of a moth
    careening toward death.

    How I wish you could
    have seen me then,
    veiled in the dark
    unbound by 
    sentient eyes,

    a sun to my own
    tender moon.

  5. Photo post

    I see her in the Blackfoot as the road curves away from the bow of the river, her hair a dark drift flowing below the surface and just above the rocks. She is no Ophelia; she inhales the current, refusing to die, adapting to  the fickle sculpting flow of time where encroaching pines construct her warrior spine, and constrict the alpine slope  of her skin. The collaboration of fallen trees explains the ancient tangle of her lovewith gentle humor,where the shallows belie  reflections across  a plummeting core, and as her fingers drape the embankment without resistance, she inches her way toward the distant dissolution of the sea.

    I see her in the Blackfoot
    as the road curves away
    from the bow of the river,
    her hair a dark drift
    flowing below the surface
    and just above the rocks.

    She is no Ophelia;
    she inhales the current,
    refusing to die,
    adapting to 
    the fickle sculpting
    flow of time
    where encroaching pines
    construct her warrior spine,
    and constrict the
    alpine slope 
    of her skin.
    The collaboration of fallen
    trees explains the ancient
    tangle of her love
    with gentle humor,
    where the shallows belie 
    reflections across 
    a plummeting core,

    and as her fingers drape
    the embankment
    without resistance,
    she inches her way
    toward the distant
    dissolution of the sea.


  6. Audio post

    Plays: 10

    Leonard Cohen’s “Halleluja” sung by Abbie O’Dell…. from the old days….

  7. Photo post

    INFERNOS  what the hell is going on inside these infernos of the feminine?  What neutron scorches their inner coal? How do they move through the streets with such containment, such grace, when all along the atom is split. You are brazen terrifying sigils of the melting poles, your rage like swarms of bees, your  love the honey on their wings. How you bear the ageless night within your eyes, and until sunrise mounts a wicked smile of gentle ragged reckoning you will not cease  this struggle. I shall never believe you  exist; you are too severe, too perfect, too vibrant  to be matter, too supple to be spirit.You are not of this  or any earth, you are all the miracles that ever were or will be,  and when the universe strains of heat death it will be because you have  gone elsewhere alone together pealing back sound. ***  Words by Josh WagnerPhoto by Greta Tuckute

    INFERNOS

    what the hell is going on
    inside these infernos of the feminine? 
    What neutron scorches their inner coal?
    How do they move through the streets
    with such containment, such
    grace, when all along the atom
    is split.

    You are brazen terrifying sigils
    of the melting poles, your
    rage like swarms of bees, your 
    love the honey on their wings.

    How you bear the ageless night
    within your eyes, and until
    sunrise mounts a wicked smile
    of gentle ragged reckoning
    you will not cease 
    this struggle.
    I shall never believe you 
    exist; you are too severe,
    too perfect, too vibrant 
    to be matter,

    too supple to be spirit.
    You are not of this 
    or any earth,
    you are all the miracles
    that ever were
    or will be, 

    and when
    the universe strains
    of heat death it will be
    because you have 
    gone elsewhere
    alone
    together
    pealing back sound.


    ***

    Words by Josh Wagner

    Photo by Greta Tuckute

  8. Photo post

    You have to talk louder  or your voice will not carry  over the next fifty years. You have to talk louder. You have to buy a ticket and walk through the gates; You have to stop wondering if you’ll ever come back, You will never come back. You have to close your account. Stop pretending  you aren’t going to die. You are going to die tomorrow, You are going to die a hundred years from now,  You are going to live forever  submerged in an embryonic  biotech brainflower replicating itself eternally on a matrix of fire, and then you are going to die. You have to talk louder or your voice will not stick to the walls Your lungs must be a caldera, your throat a minaret. Train your tongue to handle  fifty million volts. Your lips are  not designed to stop your voice, your teeth are tectonic plates so talk louder. You have to throw away  that box of things you never use, You will never use them. You have to stop trying to say something new; Everything has been said, but not everything has been said aloud. Everything has been painted, but not everything’s been painted on. You have to whisper if you want to talk louder in a loud world. You have to narrow your eyes and cut off your legs,and bind your entrails and tear out your eyes,and swallow your tongue  and crawl to the top of the sky and stop. You have to stop waiting. Stop reading.  Don’t finish this poem. Close the book,  close your eyes,close your door, break your computer, burn your  house down, shut your mouth and scream. You are what you’ve been waiting for. You have to take off all of your clothes and all of your skin and all of your thoughts until you are nothing but voice crying out to the wilderness, until even your echoes are asteroids plunging into the thermite of the ear. You have to stop putting it off  until you have something to say; You will never have something to say. Not until you talk louder, not until you’ve healed the deaf, not until they are all staring at you, and you are frozen in terror before the arching moon with your tongue in the sand and the storm in your hair, and the flush of your blood moored on the beachwhere the bonesof your jawunhinge. You have to make them want to kill you. You have to make them want to shut you up.
***
Written by Josh Wagner
photograph unknown

    You have to talk louder 
    or your voice will not carry 
    over the next fifty years.

    You have to talk louder.

    You have to buy a ticket
    and walk through the gates;
    You have to stop wondering
    if you’ll ever come back,
    You will never
    come back.

    You have to close your account.
    Stop pretending 
    you aren’t going to die.
    You are going to die
    tomorrow,
    You are going to die
    a hundred years from now, 

    You are going to live forever 
    submerged in an embryonic 
    biotech brainflower
    replicating itself eternally
    on a matrix of fire,

    and then you are going to die.

    You have to talk louder
    or your voice will not
    stick to the walls
    Your lungs must be a caldera,
    your throat a minaret.
    Train your tongue to handle 
    fifty million volts. Your lips are 
    not designed to stop
    your voice, your teeth
    are tectonic plates so talk louder.

    You have to throw away 
    that box of things you never use,
    You will never use them.

    You have to stop trying
    to say something new;

    Everything has been said,
    but not everything has been said aloud.
    Everything has been painted,
    but not everything’s been painted on.

    You have to whisper
    if you want to talk louder in a loud world.
    You have to narrow your eyes
    and cut off your legs,
    and bind your entrails
    and tear out your eyes,
    and swallow your tongue 
    and crawl to the top
    of the sky and
    stop.

    You have to stop waiting.
    Stop reading. 
    Don’t finish this poem.
    Close the book, 
    close your eyes,
    close your door, break
    your computer, burn your 
    house down, shut your
    mouth and scream.

    You are what you’ve been waiting for.

    You have to take off all of your clothes
    and all of your skin
    and all of your thoughts
    until you are nothing but voice
    crying out to the wilderness,
    until even your echoes
    are asteroids plunging
    into the thermite
    of the ear.

    You have to stop putting it off 
    until you have something to say;
    You will never have something to say.
    Not until you talk louder,
    not until you’ve healed the deaf,
    not until they are all staring at you,
    and you are frozen in terror
    before the arching moon
    with your tongue in the sand
    and the storm in your hair,
    and the flush of your blood
    moored on the beach
    where the bones
    of your jaw
    unhinge.

    You have to make them want to kill you.
    You have to make them want to shut you up.

    ***

    Written by Josh Wagner

    photograph unknown

  9. Photo post

    I am a giant in the perfect center  of many round and far off tiny kingdoms. There upon the singing hills a forest meadow beckons with its trees like tiny quills; and down along the path I see a dwindling lane to tiny things that draw me on like tiny wings to threads of light  and little crowds where thimbles shroudpin cushion trees. And with each step I take toward the tiny kingdom’s nearer shore distance shrinks but objects grow, ‘til further down the lane at last arriving, I turn to find the placewhere I first stood  is now that same small fairy wood;  and all around me sizes match  those of the world  from whence I hatched. How was I fooled in travel swayed? Did I shrink along my way? Or did I grow and leave behind a tiny land, a tiny mind.

    I am a giant
    in the perfect center 
    of many round
    and far off tiny kingdoms.

    There upon the singing hills
    a forest meadow beckons 
    with its trees like tiny quills;
    and down along the path I see
    a dwindling lane to tiny things
    that draw me on like tiny wings
    to threads of light 
    and little crowds
    where thimbles shroud
    pin cushion trees.

    And with each step I take toward
    the tiny kingdom’s nearer shore
    distance shrinks but objects grow,
    ‘til further down the lane 
    at last arriving,
    I turn to find the place
    where I first stood 
    is now that same small fairy wood; 
    and all around me sizes match 
    those of the world 
    from whence I hatched.

    How was I fooled in travel swayed?
    Did I shrink along my way?
    Or did I grow and leave behind
    a tiny land, a tiny mind.

  10. Photo post

    we are assembled  piece by piece in the early garden and splintered with the terms of our insistence to climb the wall fingers coming off with the shale, scabs unwind  our shedding vines that coil towardrumors of another side. what remains are  stone shins and knotted roots and silver teeth and annotated leaves and hollow eyes where a light shines through

    we are assembled 
    piece by piece
    in the early garden

    and splintered with
    the terms of our insistence
    to climb the wall

    fingers coming off
    with the shale,
    scabs unwind 
    our shedding vines
    that coil toward
    rumors of another side.

    what remains are 
    stone shins and
    knotted roots and
    silver teeth and
    annotated leaves

    and hollow eyes
    where a light shines through

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