27 11 / 2012

Superhero - A Visual Poem (by hachey1234)

This makes me cry every time. Like clockwork.  Check the trigger warnings in the tags before you watch, be kind to yourself.

21 10 / 2012

Sherman Alexie, “Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World”

The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is blessed among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because

He’s astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. “Hey, Ma,”

I say, “Can I talk to Poppa?” She gasps,
And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. “Shit, Mom,”
I say. “I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?” “It’s okay,” she says.
“I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn’t realize my mistake
Until this afternoon.” My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

14 10 / 2012


If you are a monster, stand up.
If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend,
If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine
If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme,
If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams
Come stand by me.

If you have been broken, stand up.
If you have been broken, abandoned, alone
If you have been starving, a creature of bone
If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne
If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known,
Come stand by me.

If you are a savage, stand up.
If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight,
If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite,
If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright,
If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight,
Come stand by me.

If you are a devil, stand up.
If you are a villain, a madman, a beast,
If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest,
If you are a dragon come sit at our feast,
For we all have stripes, and we all have horns,
We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns
And here in the dark is where new worlds are born.
Come stand by me.


A Monstrous Manifesto, by Catherynne M. Valente (via handsagainsthearts)

(Source: missivesfromghosts, via coffeebuddha)


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29 9 / 2012

"Grief is a house
where the chairs
have forgotten how to hold us
the mirrors how to reflect us
the walls how to contain us
Grief is a house that disappears
each time someone knocks at the door
or rings the bell
a house that blows into the air
at the slightest gust
that buries itself deep in the ground
while everyone is sleeping
Grief is a house where no one can protect you
where the younger sister
will grow older than the older one
where the doors
no longer let you in
or out"

The Sky Is Everywhere by Jandy Nelson

24 9 / 2012



My earliest memories of my mother
are sunburned. Pink cheeks.
Braids. Dirt under fingernails.

Before me, she was already self-conscious
about her stomach. Then I was made and I was too stubborn
to turn upside down inside her and they had to
cut her open and pull me out.

I learned how to put on lipstick
by watching her get ready for work
in the morning.

I learned how to criticize myself
by watching her cluck at the mirror,
swatting her hair down like a bad dog.


I am sorry for the white worm
I left across your middle.


She believes my sisters and I chose her
to be our mother. Handpicked her
from a basket of others.

This one. This one will teach us the most.

Learn to cherish this vessel,
the tired music of the body.
Let the skin be witness.
To grow. To grow.

I am standing in front of a mirror.
I am insulting myself out of habit
and suddenly my mother stops me,
“don’t say that, Sierra. If you think you are ugly,
you are creating that ugliness inside you.”


I am thankful for the bed in your belly.
I was a weary traveler.


My mother has a birthmark
the size of a grapefruit on her hip.
It is red and exploding.

I can only imagine
when she undressed for my father
the first time, it was like
watching the sun come up.


I Eat Poetry

Evolution in Nine Parts

by Sierra DeMulder

03 9 / 2012

T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

(Source: aseaofquotes, via soy)

03 9 / 2012

What Work Is, Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

26 7 / 2012

News + Updates


Hello and welcome to all of our new followers!  In this last week we’ve accumulated a sizable following and your interest in Minds On Music has not gone unappreciated.

As some of you have noticed, the site is going at a steady pace of one post per week but Minds On Music would like to post more frequently.  In order to reach this goal, Minds On Music needs more quality submissions, which can be anything from creative writing pieces, poetry, paintings, collages, imaginary conversations between you and your favorite artist, etc.  If you’re interested in writing or creating art in response to music go for it and then submit it here and then show your friends.  The goal of Minds On Music is build a creative community and to share opinions and ideas.

Also, check it out.  Minds On Music is listed on NewPages as an alternative literary magazine.  This is a small step towards the larger process of starting an annual publication and other incredible projects.  

Thank you to those who have submitted so far and look out for next week’s post tomorrow.  Also, a huge thank you to the readers and followers, you are all extremely important and I hope you consider submitting some work soon.  Minds On Music is looking to make this the last one-post week for a long, long time.

Submit your thoughts, art, writing, etc. on music. What a cool space!

11 7 / 2012

"Adrift in the liberating, late light
of August, delicate, frivolous,
they make their way to my front porch
and flutter near the glassed-in bulb,
translucent as a thought suddenly
wondered aloud, illumining the air
that’s thick with honeysuckle and dusk.
You and I are doing our best
at conversation, keeping it light, steering clear
of what we’d like to say.
You leave, and the night becomes
cluttered with moths, some tattered,
their dumbly curious filaments
startling against my cheek. How quickly,
instinctively, I brush them away.
Dazed, they cling to the outer darkness
like pale reminders of ourselves.
Others seem to want so desperately
to get inside. Months later, I’ll find
the woolens, snug in their resting places,
full of missing pieces."


Permalink 1 note

05 5 / 2012

"I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes"

God Says Yes to Me, Kaylin Haught (via videogameheart)

reblogging because I can.