I went to a funky soul dance party last night and channeled Cher Horowitz and Scooby Doo. My friend wore unicorn tights. Good vibes.

re: Mars haiku. weeping.

NASA is looking for three haiku to include on a DVD that will travel to Mars aboard a spacecraft this fall. And everyone who submits a poem will have their name included.

Well, this is happening and I might apply to be a clerk at a funeral home, so things are looking pretty cool right now.

(via lieslieslies)

lr2b:

Dear Berthold,

I’m sorry I’ve been gone so long, old friend. I inherited a jug of clove oil on my twelfth hornet moon and was able to steal away at the middle of the longest night. I traveled to New York where every light is on and every light is a drag queen on a wooden stage in the back of a Mexican bar. I needed to see my gusto (on my mother’s side) for supplies, but I was not able to communicate with anyone. Language is no longer sacred there and everyone seems to communicate by varying the cadence of their footfalls as they move and move and move. I stayed one night at the interplanetary synagogue before I came home. Do not travel to Earth, Berthold, you will not like it.

Things are not well here either. The tremors are worse than ever and the revolt has been squashed. At least for now. And our leaders are doing very strange things to your beautiful colors. I’ve heard rumor that they’re modifying them with the night colors of the Appolonians. Making them brighter and more powerful. They’re adding it to everything. Nothing is safe to eat or drink, so I’ve been growing things myself. And I still cast my net out for asteroids occasionally, when I crave their sweet nectar, but there just aren’t many left. I can feel it when they are coming. Can you feel it when they’re coming over there, Berthold?

Lucy-Rupert

My friend and I are still doing this thing. It’d be swell if you took a look.

it’s nothing I would recommend
you can be so condescending
like a hero to the rescue
in a building all aflame
they’ll all remember your good name
and I’m just left to feel the shame
of looking like someone who hates you
who’s just about to blow his top
and swore this song would be a flop
but took it way too far to stop

———

sounds like this could be Okkervil River circa Plus Ones. the most pep melancholy can bear.

blue-voids:

François-Henri Galland

(via solsetur)

Went to a baseball game for these reasons:

1) to be one of the first 2,500 people to get a free jersey with an alien on it
2) America

I did not get a jersey.

I drank enough at our old haunt last night to complain that everybody was on their phones and then marched to the bathroom for a quick reprieve. The women’s bathroom is a holy place, if you didn’t know. We go to revel in spirit and testify, shelter and shun, rest. Pray for forgiveness. I walked in and blotted my oily face while the only other girl in there stood idly, glazed with the euphoria of just-enough. I dabbed at my nose.

“I get so shiny when I drink,” I said to my reflection and glanced at her ghost in the dim lighting.

She smiled. “Me too, but my boyfriend doesn’t care. We’re getting married in two weeks. It’s so nice to wake up to somebody that doesn’t care about anything but being with you, you know?”

Celebration. Confession. I was suddenly flooded with synthetic warmth. My body, shrinking away from the poison of her happiness, glowed to repel her. She told me everything.

“You have a beautiful energy,” I told her, “I can feel it.”

“I pray for everyone to have this. You will have this.”

The moment always comes when drunk strangers declare their love and the more sober of the two crosses their fingers. Maybe we both did. But it was a holy night, and we blessed each other. I started to pull myself away from it all, imagining the bored boys I left screen-lit in the corner booth. We walked out together and I escorted her back to her friends, just a few paces away from mine.

“You’re welcome to join us,” she said.

I motioned toward my group and then threw my arms around her.

“Have a beautiful life,” I told her, fingers uncrossed. It’s the only thing I can wish others with my flesh, my mouth that will die, the strings that will dry up within me. It’s the only hymn I know. It’s the only promise I can make.

My friend and I brainstorm titles for the inevitable GM babies movie. She wins, as usual.