It’s been a while but I’m working on a new post.
A Poetic Retelling.
These are some photos I found at an abandoned church in O.T.R.
Finding these photographs was an experience that made me look at the art of photography in a new light. These photos are extremely inspiring to me because they are evidence that you truly can live forever in the image you burn,or at least for quite a while. What are you leaving behind?
A few photographs.
photo Credit: AmGam
The Way of the Sword.
Photo credit: AmGam
Much more to come. until then, live by the sword, die by the sword.
Where are the young lords?
Where are the young lords? is a quick mix I threw together. Happy Christmas!
The new, and the improved.
What I’ve been up to.
New poem in progress:
I feel like I’m 30.
Most mornings I wake up unhappy.
Sick from festivities forgotten and the night’s crisp air.
We walked in that crisp air.
We walked all the way to Kentucky just to see if we could.
We walked in moccasins, and somehow I became convinced
that I was a Cherokee, walking a trail of tears
away from the land we knew was safe,
but it wasn’t rash because with safety comes despondence.
And we are still young so let’s make dandelion crowns.
Let’s ridicule those who are not strong enough to be king.
Let’s be elementary in our transgressions, spitting on sidewalks
and breaking pencils. I want to kick you under the table
and look into your eyes because this is just like first grade
and I don’t know how to hold hands yet.
I haven’t fucked or fought or loved anything yet
So will you be my first?
Will you be the first one in line and the last leaf on the tree?
Or will you abandon me like the rest will?
Would you leave me to chase the silver strands
That dreams sometimes leave behind?
Will you hide your hands from me?
Pocketing the stigmas I’ve always known were there.
There is no more truth in waking up.
There are no more reasons to number our days.
Because I will forever be stationary.
If only for your memory I will stand here
Seemingly courageous, I will stand here
Fighting everything false inside of myself
The only things I’ll let live
Are the things you left behind:
A lipstick, two camel lights, a pair of tweezers,
And the suitcase that you couldn’t carry.
Danny Sherrard.
What I’m reading: For the past few days I have been reading Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. It’s a great read and though I normally encourage people to read contemporary literature I highly recommend diving into this play, it’s a highly enjoyable read.
A Shaky Day At Amir’s.
My new venture.
Steal this book. Write in it.
Our host.
We're so young.
Window.
My Week in Music.
Best Coast- The Sun Was High (so was I)
I’ve also been listening to:
Beach House
Kurt Vile
Matteah Baim
Grouper
and
Tiny Vipers
The Last Film I Watched.
Synecdoches New York
This poem is for you…and you know who you are.
Daffodils
Freshly 18 you go out into the world sacrificing yourself
To the gods of newly painted apartments and friends who won’t wake up
Your belly is empty …but who gives a damn in days as dark as this
Breathe slow and attempt to sync exhalation with the drum that your heart now beats to
And pretend that I am a little man dancing precariously amongst newly grown hairs on your scalp
Mocking our past selves, present truths, and future occupations
I once had a dream that I would work in some old shipyard
Sun kissing my neck deeply like lovers before a war
The only thing I would have to come home to is you
Playing me your deepest desires on some old 45
Phrases of your whiskey drenched soul dribbling out
In someone else’s worn out voice
I have just realized that this is a love for my nightmares
I’m tired of watching days pass like this
Waking up back sticking to your sheets
Attempting to hold a cigarette steady with a trembling hand
I look into you once starlit eyes
Now sad dwarfs for planets soon to fall into
We pretend each dawn is a miracle
Hold your head above the water
And we will mix passion with broken teeth
And scratch tallies marking the newborn days
With our exposed bones
I’ll kiss the tears that glide quietly down your cheek
Hoping that by some terrible mistake we will stay together
I couldn’t have dreamt up a more beautiful ending
To something so seemingly tragic
So hold me quietly for this last hour
And we will listen as the sky consumes itself
Because this isn’t the time for us to wonder
If we’ll ever get our shit together
This is the early afternoon of our discontent
Where I am now.
I’m back in Dayton, OH once more, and I’m thanking every god that’s ever been thought to exist that it’s only for the weekend. For me Dayton represents the most oppressive years of my life up to this point, both artistically and intellectually. I’ve always viewed Dayton as a a trap for lives and dreams. People rarely make it out of this place, and I hate that fact because I see so much potential in the youth of this dying city. The evidence of Dayton giving up on itself is so blatant, you find it in most families here. I have an aunt who paints beautiful landscapes, once she told me that when she was a girl she had Parisian dreams…she’s never been farther then Louisville.
“shake the dust”
This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.
This is for the school-yard wimps, this is for the childhood bullies who tormented them.
This is for the former prom queen, this is for the milk-crate ball players.
This is for the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired, elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters. Shake the dust.
This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them,
for the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns,
for the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children,
for the nighttime schoolers and the midnight bike riders who are trying to fly. Shake the dust.
This is for the two-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-god. Shake the dust.
For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy,
for those gym class wall flowers and the twelve-year-olds afraid of taking public showers,
for the kid who’s always late to class because he forgets the combination to his lockers,
for the girl who loves somebody else. Shake the dust.
This is for the hard men, the hard men who want to love but know that is won’t come.
For the ones who are forgotten, the ones the amendments do not stand up for.
For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself.
Do not let a moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats 900 times a day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make you an ocean.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and the dust to collect in your veins.
This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling,
for the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone.
For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jaggers’ singing lips and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips, for the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.
This is for the tired and for the dreamers and for those families who’ll never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the biggots,
this is for the sexists,
this is for the killers.
This is for the big house, pen-sentenced cats becoming redeemers and for the springtime that always shows up after the winters.
This? This is for you.
Make sure that by the time fisherman returns you are gone.
Because just like the days, I burn both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes I am cutting out a part of myself to give to you.
So shake the dust and take me with you when you do for none of this has never been for me.
All that pushes and pulls, pushes and pulls for you.
So grab this world by its clothespins and shake it out again and again and jump on top and take it for a spin and when you hop off shake it again for this is yours.
Make my words worth it, make this not just another poem that I write, not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all.
Walk into it, breathe it in, let is crash through the halls of your arms at the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood pumping and pushing making you live, shaking the dust.
So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob and open on up, running forward into its widespread greeting arms with your hands before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.
-anis mojgani
who am i?
i am d.j edwards.
i am simply a series of small victories, and larger defeats.
i try to surround myself with with the beauty of the world in all the forms it comes in.
girl smoking in a room (redux)
i love beautiful images.
i love beautiful words.
i love beautiful music.
harmony korine
above all, i love beautiful people.
