what’d i do with all this faith

viktor-sbor:

Testing of a new refractory building material. New Haven, 1949

(via mossyshadows)

damdea:

(via jbe200)

damdea:

(via jbe200)

zegalba:

Richard Deacon: Body of Thought (1988)

(via x2s)

ymutate:

The Son of the Earth, a huge sleeping baby set in the Gobi Desert in Gansu province. Measuring 15 metres long, 4.3 metres high and 9 metres wide, it was made of red sandstone using 3D technology

by artist Dong Shubing

srdiecko:

tony hoagland, crazy motherfucker weather

(via maryolive)

slateblueearthbelow:

Reasons to Survive November

November like a train wreck—
as if a locomotive made of cold
had hurtled out of Canada
and crashed into a million trees,
flaming the leaves, setting the woods on fire.

The sky is a thick, cold gauze—
but there’s a soup special at the Waffle House downtown,
and the Jack Parsons show is up at the museum,
full of luminous red barns.

—Or maybe I’ll visit beautiful Donna,
the kickboxing queen from Santa Fe,
and roll around in her foldout bed.

I know there are some people out there
who think I am supposed to end up
               in a room by myself

with a gun and a bottle full of hate,
a locked door and my slack mouth open
         like a disconnected phone.

But I hate those people back
from the core of my donkey soul
and the hatred makes me strong
and my survival is their failure,

and my happiness would kill them
so I shove joy like a knife
into my own heart over and over

and I force myself toward pleasure,
and I love this November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
into the land of my enemies.

Tony Hoagland, from What Narcissism Means to Me

(via maryolive)

fluttering-slips:

From the Desire Field

I don’t call it sleep anymore.
            I’ll risk losing something new instead—

like you lost your rosen moon, shook it loose.

But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing—
a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined
            fruit to unfasten from,

despite my trembling.

Let me call my anxiety, desire, then.
Let me call it, a garden.

Maybe this is what Lorca meant
            when he said, verde que te quiero verde—

because when the shade of night comes,
I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest.

My mind in the dark is una bestia, unfocused,
            hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion

beneath the hip and plow of my lover,
then I am another night wandering the desire field—

bewildered in its low green glow,

belling the meadow between midnight and morning.
Insomnia is like Spring that way—surprising
            and many petaled,

the kick and leap of gold grasshoppers at my brow.

I am struck in the witched hours of want—

I want her green life. Her inside me
in a green hour I can’t stop.
            Green vein in her throat green wing in my mouth

green thorn in my eye. I want her like a river goes, bending.
Green moving green, moving.

Fast as that, this is how it happens—
            soy una sonámbula.

And even though you said today you felt better,
and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,
            to say, I don’t feel good,

to ask you to tell me a story
about the sweet grass you planted—and tell it again
            or again—

until I can smell its sweet smoke,
            leave this thrashed field, and be smooth

Natalie Diaz

(via maybuds)