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“FRAGMENT, I am a fragment of us. I am a fragment composed
of fragments. Mosaic, pastiche, ruin. Everyday
consciousness proposes lightbulb, ropeswing, teapot,
David Bowie, your sweater on, your sweater off, tomatillo,
all associated. Parts suggesting the whole
they long to be gathered into.”
― Love, an Index
of fragments. Mosaic, pastiche, ruin. Everyday
consciousness proposes lightbulb, ropeswing, teapot,
David Bowie, your sweater on, your sweater off, tomatillo,
all associated. Parts suggesting the whole
they long to be gathered into.”
― Love, an Index
“You give me an apartment full of morning smells- toasted bagel and black coffee and the freckled lilies in the vase on the windowsill. You give me 24-across.”
― Love, an Index
― Love, an Index
“I think there is a general misconception that you write poems because you “have something to say.” I think, actually, that you write poems because you have something echoing around in the bone-dome of your skull that you cannot say. Poetry allows us to hold many related tangential notions in very close orbit around each other at the same time. The “unsayable” thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it.”
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“Rebecca Lindenberg thinks of poetry as the practice of overhearing yourself. Rebecca Lindneberg thinks about love. About ribbons unspooling.”
― Love, an Index
― Love, an Index
“Thanksgiving
My guy buys brie, a baguette, and cherry tomatoes with his food stamps. I buy firewood and wine. We go up the canyon and light a fire in a stone fire pit and sit in soft folding chairs and talk for hours, let the penny-colored pit bull walk against the river current. And as we sit, the tall granite walls of the canyon slowly purple to black, and the sky goes out, and the flames we're sitting by get brighter and warmer, until we begin to dwindle, and we douse them, and we go.”
― The Logan Notebooks
My guy buys brie, a baguette, and cherry tomatoes with his food stamps. I buy firewood and wine. We go up the canyon and light a fire in a stone fire pit and sit in soft folding chairs and talk for hours, let the penny-colored pit bull walk against the river current. And as we sit, the tall granite walls of the canyon slowly purple to black, and the sky goes out, and the flames we're sitting by get brighter and warmer, until we begin to dwindle, and we douse them, and we go.”
― The Logan Notebooks
