Let's see, hear.

Some thing like your breath is in my mouth, carousing my heart from up above, saying giddy-up, giddy-up, let's go. Like an urging older sister hanging over the edge of the top bunk. If this small, stupid organ wants to, well, let it. Down the streets it could stroll, splashing red on the sidewalks and the fresh-headed flowers. When it is time, it'll skip on home, to my waiting chest, open all night.

I started a new story for no good reason the other night. I'm writing a dang book but needed a smaller outlet to plug into for a minute, I guess. Excerpt as follows.

Your grandmother was a hilarious person the way you tell it. I imagine an old-fashioned version of you. All that curly hair and your small sharp features, an animated blur. When you would get to the part of the customs agents and Nana’s fake Polish accent, you couldn’t help but stand up if you were seated and mimic their bored rubber-stamping and paper-shuffling.

Love is alive and well, friends. Even dead people receive flowers. Hat tip, strong and hearty hat tip, to you. And as for me, again and again. Again and again.

Anyway...

By: Clifton Burt, via.

I said something about paisleys the other day and I've been seeing them pop up in different places lately. It's a ye olde case of cause versus observation.


This is pretty but was nearly ruined by this stupid thing the artist said: “These ornately fashioned mythological females are inspired from various forms of primeval folklore that resonate within my psyche.” Uff-da. By: Jeaneen Carlino, via.


Look at you, magic tiger! My gosh. By: Yoshi Sodeoka, via.


I am deeply in love with this photo at the mome'. By: Rebecca Rijsdijk, via.


This photo reminds me of my dear boy so I like it. By: Michael Wells, via.