lisa wiseman photography


This is spectacular jaw-dropping poetry mastery. NSFW just so you know.

"Dear Mrs. Thompson" by Danez Smith (Rustbelt 2014)


A Pythonic Lament By Mike Widner


The circumstances


def bemoan():


our_lives_must = [‘end’]

the_suffering = [True]        # Read as “the suff’ring”

she = ‘loves you’

love = ‘a string of memories’

alone = bemoan

alas = alone


The lament


for poetry in the_suffering:


for variables in our_lives_must:


if None and 1 or 1 and None:


if love.split() or she.replace(‘you’, ”):



        the_suffering.escape() and love.admit()


        for one_day in our_lives_must:


I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
and I became fierce like a lion,
then tender like and evening star.
— Rumi

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.


The Kiss

She pressed her lips to mind.
⎯a typo

How many years I must have yearned
for someone’s lips against mind.
Pheromones, newly born, were floating
between us. There was hardly any air.

She kissed me again, reaching that place
that sends messages to toes and fingertips,
then all the way to something like home.
Some music was playing on its own.

Nothing like a woman who knows
to kiss the right thing at the right time,
then kisses the things she’s missed.
How had I ever settled for less?

I was thinking this is intelligence,
this is the wisest tongue
since the Oracle got into a Greek’s ear,
speaking sense. It’s the Good,

defining itself. I was out of my mind.
She was in. We married as soon as we could.


oh how i love love love this video from bruce weber. my idol.

you can see the original post/text here.

The Exclusive Opening Scene of “barefooting Around The World”

Bruce Weber’s work—a mélange of nostalgia, lust and poetry—is borne of his love affairs with film and radio growing up in 50s Pennsylvania. Today we premiere the first minutes of Barefooting Around the World, made in collaboration with luxury outdoor furniture maker DEDON. Capturing an idyllic dreamscape by the sea, the film was shot near Weber’s home on Montauk, Long Island, on a typically grand scale, with such elaborate props as a seaplane, an amphibious vehicle and a house on the waves, constructed by set designer Stefan Beckman from several barges tied together and furnished with DEDON’s exquisite designs. Over 90 people made up the cast and crew, including longtime friends and collaborators supermodel Elaine Irwin and model and actress Dree Hemingway, while the film’s original score comes courtesy of Chet Baker arranger John Leftwich. Narration was written by Weber himself, evoking a spirit of freedom and adventure that has long characterized his staggering resume. In a glittering career that has spanned over 30 years, the photographer has shot iconic fashion images for Vanity Fair, GQ, W, Interview, Vogue and Rolling Stone, pioneered ad campaigns with Calvin Klein and Abercrombie & Fitch, produced books through his own Little Bear imprint and directed films such as the haunting Chet Baker documentary Let’s Get Lost.


"we’ve gotten to the point where we’re the most aggressively inarticulate generation to come along, since, ya know, a long time ago! so i implore you, i entreat you, i challenge you, to speak with conviction! to say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks the determination with which you believe it."

- Taylor Mali via Jeff Tse

earth’s the right place for love:
i don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
— robert frost

It’s National Poetry Month and this is my crazy-talented friend Ellen’s favorite poem. I love it.


Beneath her slip,
the slip of her.

Iron. Lust.
The flint of her.

In dorms and parks, motels
and tents: the din of her.

What I would not have done
for another sip of her.

She swore she’d never love another.
The fib of her.

She kicked off the sheets; I held on,
breathless, through the fit of her.

Good or evil, she was first.
The rib of her.

That she could leave me after all
that I had been to her.

Hands pressed deep
into my mouth. The bit of her.

A lengthy, doe-eyed nuzzle
at the salt lick of her.

Cock sure,
the spit of her.

A week spent curled up on the floor,
gutted, sick for her.

Nights she ground my bones
to dust. The grit of her.

Teeth, nails, my name
whispered low. The grip of her.

- Emily Moore


Listen to the mustn’ts child.

Listen to the don’ts.

Listen to the shouldn’ts, the impossibles, the won’ts.

Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me…

Anything can happen, child.

Anything can be.

— Shel Silverstein