comcasting:

My grandpa texted for the first time in his life today and he spit straight wisdom out of the keyboard

snorlaxatives:

7 billion people, 14 billion ass cheeks


theparisreview:

“A poem is something that happens. It is not words or characters on a page, and it is not a performance by the artist: the artist makes the means or occasion for the poem to happen in the reader, an action spirited into being. This process from maker to work to recipient, a process so ancient it seems natural, is itself a human creation, like any other social form.”
Robert Pinsky is seventy-four today. From our Poetry issue, read an excerpt of his essay, “Occasional Poetry and Poetry on Occasions.”
No disrespect but how do y’all sleep on such a fine piece like me

(Source: 6ee)


How do we forgive our fathers? Maybe in a dream. Do we forgive our fathers for leaving us too often, or forever, when we were little? Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage, or making us nervous because there never seemed to be any rage there at all? Do we forgive our fathers for marrying, or not marrying, our mothers? Or divorcing, or not divorcing, our mothers? And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness? Shall we forgive them for pushing, or leaning? For shutting doors or speaking through walls? For never speaking, or never being silent? Do we forgive our fathers in our age, or in theirs? Or in their deaths, saying it to them or not saying it. If we forgive our fathers, what is left?
- Sherman Alexie (via hooraychelle)