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Reading ray young bear

This morning I read the second section of Ray Young Bear’s Winter Of The Salamander, “When We Assume Life Will Go Well For Us”. Ray’s work is dreamlike yet feels viscerally real. It helps me integrate the mental with the physical in my life. Anyways, I wanted to share a poem I read about ten times over this morning that evoked an indescribable feeling in me. From His Dream the air hadn’t changed  since she last saw her mother. the land was cover with frozen  rain. she knew a couple of days  ahead that the spring would disappear. she kept reminding to her husband,  it’ll have to come back.  i don’t think it’s really over with,  but he always seemed disinterested.  a look of worry in his eyes.  even as it was snowing,  thunder rolled across the roof  of their home and they couldn’t  help glancing at each other  with puzzled faces. bodies  of disemboweled animals flashed  in their minds,  the children ran about in play  but when they ran into their father’s  eyes, they could see the light  of their rooms, the changing contrast  of shadows, clothes that had to be buried, faces of death, a knife burning in  the figure of seals on a tree. the second time they ran,  the wind made sounds as if  there were people with their mouths  up against the house, talking. as it grew colder, the snow made  more noise against the plastics  coverings over the windows. when the children looked outside  they could see the clouds piling up  on top of each other, each group  darker than the other.  across the room where their mother sat they could distinctly visualize  the changing color of her lips.  teeth biting into her skin. they followed as she circled  the room, spitting the chewed willow  all around the windows. their son has been gone most  of the day. it wasn’t unusual for him  to hunt alone. he always seemed to know  what to do. old enough to be gifted  naturally to keep away from flowing women, he had spoken about sliding down hills  on his knees, picking up the snow  to his ears and hearing the thoughts  of deer, bringing packed bodies  of muskrat and duck, the different  crusts of blood on his shoulder bag. from a distance, his father  could see his tracks heading  into the thickets. small owls guided  their way through brush by the touch  in their wings. he remembered a dream  he had that morning of giant fish  and coral snakes submerged in the icy waters  of a river he had never seen.  he and his son cornering a small horse covered with fish scales, bearing  the head of a frightened man.  its thin legs and cracked hooves.  somewhere in this land he knew  there was a place where these creatures  existed. he had also been told of a hole where the spirits spent their days,  watching the people before they crawled  out, traveling through their arcs  in the sky towards evening like birds. on the way back home, thinking his son  had circled the forest, he crawled  across a section of river which was still  covered with ice and fish entrails,  previous spots where he had taught  his son to use a blanket to block  out the daylight to lie there  with his barbed spear, waiting  for catfish to lumber out from the roots  of fallen trees under the ice.  although he felt a desire to crawl  straight across without looking  down into the river bottom through  the clear ice, something caught his eye,  as he peered into the bubbling water,  he saw the severed head of his son,  the hoof from his dream,  bouncing along the sandy bottom.

@archibald

Jan 19, 2025

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Found this poem by Althea Davis

“And God, please let the deer on the highway get some kind of heaven. Something with tall soft grass and sweet reunion. Let the moths in porch lights go some place with a thousand suns, that taste like sugar and get swallowed whole. May the mice in oil and glue have forever dry, warm fur and full bellies. If I am killed for simply living, let death be kinder than man.” ― Althea Davis

@scott_russell

Feb 8, 2024

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the swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air – An armful of white blossoms, A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies, Biting the air with its black beak? Did you hear it, fluting and whistling A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall Knifing down the black ledges? And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds – A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river? And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? And have you changed your life?

@gabbylinder

Oct 1, 2024

Top Recs from @rocky

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incredibly tiny writing

when i need to write secrets, things i'm ashamed about, sexy sentences, or anything i don't want any eyes on (not even mine) i write as small as i possibly can. this past weekend i had a lot of floating anxieties that i committed to paper this way and free writing in this format helped offload thoughts that were making me loopy. it looks kind of psychotic by the time i'm done a page but also kind of beautiful? (edited to fuck to preserve secrecy but still give you an idea of what it looks like. this is on a folded-up A4 sheet of paper zine)

@rocky

Mar 13, 2024

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Being smitten with someone

fuck it going giggly googly eye mode

@rocky

Feb 18, 2024

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Current top 4

todd solondz’s happiness is so close to being up there

@rocky

Mar 22, 2024