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life tip: you can listen to a song on loop
Big fan of characters realizing they don't get to die. They have to live. And grow. And be a person. And deal with shit they thought they'd never have to. And be fucked up about it. I would like more of this. Enough dying for honor or as redemption. It ain't. You're just a corpse. There is no moral value in dirt time.
![a screenshot of the poem "How to Be a Dog" by Andrew Kane. It reads: If you want to be a dog, first you must learn to wait. You must wait all day until somebody returns, and if somebody returns late, you must learn to wait until then. Then you must learn to speak in one of the voices available to you, high and light or mellow thick and low or middle-range and terse. Whichever voice you learn to speak, you will meet somebody who does not like you because of it, they will be wary or annoyed or you will remind them of something or someone else. Once you have learned to speak you must learn not to speak unless you absolutely must, or to speak as much as you feel you must regardless of how many times you are told to stop, or sit, or placed behind a door—this will depend on what kind of a dog you want to be. And indeed there are many kinds. It may not feel as though you get to choose, and that too is a kind of dog. Next you must learn to relinquish all control over everything you might wish to control. You must learn to prefer to be led about by the neck on a piece of string, or staked to a neglected lawn by a length of chain. You must learn, once you have sampled the freedom of a life without a chain, that it is better to return and be chained again. Or you may learn that it is not—a fugitive is also a kind of dog. Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. You must learn to be confused but never disappointed by a deficiency of love. You must give up your children and not know why. You must lose yourself wholly in activity; you must never feel an itch that you do not scratch. You must learn how to wait at the foot of the bed and hope, silently, that somebody is drunk enough or lonely enough to invite you up, and you must learn not to show your excitement too much or overplay your hand. If you want to be a dog, you must learn to believe that you are not in fact a dog at all. [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5f10e46dd110bb4196c1a9b4b924a395/8d9a2f5203fc94be-40/s640x960/cdfc453705112583188801307279d4cf03bd65d5.png)
![a screenshot of the poem "Meditations in an Emergency" by Cameron Awkward-Rich. It reads: I wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds & the thrill of rain breaks my heart. I go outside. I ride the train, walk among the buildings, men in Monday suits. The flight of doves, the city of tents beneath the underpass, the huddled mass, old women hawking roses, & children all of them, break my heart. There’s a dream I have in which I love the world. I run from end to end like fingers through her hair. There are no borders, only wind. Like you, I was born. Like you, I was raised in the institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand on my stupid heart. End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/509d097bd825913230e7ebf3daccb064/8d9a2f5203fc94be-ba/s640x960/8b54cef01a243c2c6845737e6e6ac5f7bdd7b9ac.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "The Two-Headed Calf" by Laura Gilpin. It reads: Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a737a778358d5aaa827689ab195a890d/69efea37927fe06e-b2/s640x960/4c2b7794c87886fa6f1fc57de70fb24284efb0a3.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver. If you'd like to hear it read by the author, visit the link "Wild Geese" in body of post below. Otherwise, it reads: You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting— over and over announcing your place in the family of things. [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/4d9e6cb5f54e222800fefa7f3d8da378/69efea37927fe06e-e8/s640x960/9b152c69f9a028b8cfcd508fa7e3afd06d30b6b4.png)
![a screenshot of the poem "How to Be a Dog" by Andrew Kane. It reads: If you want to be a dog, first you must learn to wait. You must wait all day until somebody returns, and if somebody returns late, you must learn to wait until then. Then you must learn to speak in one of the voices available to you, high and light or mellow thick and low or middle-range and terse. Whichever voice you learn to speak, you will meet somebody who does not like you because of it, they will be wary or annoyed or you will remind them of something or someone else. Once you have learned to speak you must learn not to speak unless you absolutely must, or to speak as much as you feel you must regardless of how many times you are told to stop, or sit, or placed behind a door—this will depend on what kind of a dog you want to be. And indeed there are many kinds. It may not feel as though you get to choose, and that too is a kind of dog. Next you must learn to relinquish all control over everything you might wish to control. You must learn to prefer to be led about by the neck on a piece of string, or staked to a neglected lawn by a length of chain. You must learn, once you have sampled the freedom of a life without a chain, that it is better to return and be chained again. Or you may learn that it is not—a fugitive is also a kind of dog. Of course you must learn to love, to love always and love entirely and to be wounded by nothing so much as the violence of your own love. You must learn to be confused but never disappointed by a deficiency of love. You must give up your children and not know why. You must lose yourself wholly in activity; you must never feel an itch that you do not scratch. You must learn how to wait at the foot of the bed and hope, silently, that somebody is drunk enough or lonely enough to invite you up, and you must learn not to show your excitement too much or overplay your hand. If you want to be a dog, you must learn to believe that you are not in fact a dog at all. [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/de7a91e83653eae6c00aad2f01ff8ce6/3367715e64b38137-4f/s640x960/f1ae6529f14e0f99492c7960372f41bd24a4590c.png)
![A screenshot of the poem "I'm Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense" by Danez Smith. It is arranged on the page as a series of couplets. It reads: O California, don’t you know the sun is only a god if you learn to starve for him? I’m bored with the ocean I stood at the lip of it, dressed in down, praying for snow I know, I’m strange, too much light makes me nervous at least in this land where the trees always bear green. I know something that doesn’t die can’t be beautiful. Have you ever stood on a frozen lake, California? The sun above you, the snow & stalled sea—a field of mirror all demanding to be the sun too, everything around you is light & it’s gorgeous & if you stay too long it will kill you & it’s so sad, you know? You’re the only warm thing for miles & the only thing that can’t shine. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/1d59180174dd39088fcf38c315363ff8/3367715e64b38137-e2/s1280x1920/8dbe49f581838ca56b5bc3092c8492b53044d157.png)
perhaps this simply hits different for the midwesterners but sometimes you are the only warm thing for miles and the only thing that can’t shine…
QUARTERFINALS
"The Two-Headed Calf" by Laura Gilpin
"Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" by Gabrielle Calvocoressi
See Results![A screenshot of the poem "The Two-Headed Calf" by Laura Gilpin. It reads: Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual. [End I.D.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/bab9d2d01fa742d7039d0afea97230a3/73f81eb45ad4c0e3-66/s640x960/13863244d853e54352a22089e9968fcf746287f0.png)
ALT![A screenshot of the poem "Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" by Gabrielle Calvocoressi. If you'd like to hear it read by the author, visit the link "Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" in body of post below. Otherwise, it reads: The days I don’t want to kill myself are extraordinary. Deep bass. All the people in the streets waiting for their high fives and leaping, I mean leaping, when they see me. I am the sun-filled god of love. Or at least an optimistic under-secretary. There should be a word for it. The days you wake up and do not want to slit your throat. Money in the bank. Enough for an iced green tea every weekday and Saturday and Sunday! It’s like being in the armpit of a Hammond B3 organ. Just reeks of gratitude and funk. The funk of ages. I am not going to ruin my love’s life today. It’s like the time I said yes to gray sneakers but then the salesman said Wait. And there, out of the back room, like the bakery’s first biscuits: bright-blue kicks. Iridescent. Like a scarab! Oh, who am I kidding, it was nothing like a scarab! It was like bright. blue. fucking. sneakers! I did not want to die that day. Oh, my God. Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels. And if you don’t know then you’re lucky but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop. Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on, Everybody. Say it with me nice and slow no pills no cliff no brains on the floor Bring the bass back. no rope no hose not today, Satan. Every day I wake up with my good fortune and news of my demise. Don’t keep it from me. Why don’t we have a name for it? Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop. Hallelujah! [End Image Description.]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/66d6c37fbc802379a95cd495c7ecd9ad/73f81eb45ad4c0e3-e2/s640x960/ab8fd94560f83b690057153bc91e5ff663064d15.png)
ALT(Visit "Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" if you'd like to hear it read by the author!)
okay okay I know two headed calf is two headed calf but PLEASE go listen to gabrielle calvocoressi read their poem i’m obsessed with it and i’m obsessed with them and you should all vote for hammond 3 organ cistern
BRIGHT. BLUE. FUCKING. SNEAKERS!
