an insatiable curiosity





just another human being who is constantly in wonder;
striving to cultivate and share my many curiosities.
buddhist philosophy, painting with words, quantum physics.
trying to save the world one piece of trash, one concious bite, one smile at a time.
a child's heart and an old soul living and loving in Seattle.
(satori) LOVE,MKB

  1. ...take a moment to stop and hear the roses.


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“The Animal Spell”

Someone once told me that animals are people under spells, and if you fall in love with them the spell will be lifted. I recently fell in love with a black trumpeter swan. I watched her ruffle her neck feathers for hours, watched her peck bugs from her breast. I was sure she would make a beautiful bride, but she was always a black trumpeter swan. I once brushed a horse’s hair for three straight years until it crumpled to death. The truth is there are no such thing as spells. The world is always as it is, and always as it seems. And love is just our own kind voice that we whisper into our own blood. 

— Zachary Schomburg

Posted in poems poetry prose words spilled ink love
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I’ve been dreaming

of running.
of fist throwing and fire

Read More

Posted in poetry spilled ink words prose dreams | 3 notes
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How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
— “The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart,” Jack Gilbert (via clavicola)

(Source: commovente)

Posted in jack gilbert poetry lit prose love | 176 notes
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lunch-poems: Amanda Nadelberg View high resolution

lunch-poems:

Amanda Nadelberg

(via commovente)

Posted in poetry words prose lit oceans Amanda Nadelberg | 176 notes
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I dreamt of

a Viking protector, who stood in the pathway of hurt that was making like a bee-line towards me.
and then he took an arrow to the heart,
and I ran frantically into locked doors, wrong turns.
brick walls and jammed windows.

and then I opened a door, to another door, (and I told myself in this dream I had to escape the oncoming nightmare, that this last one would lead me to freedom.)

I ended up in my neighborhood, home as I thought.
people were surrounding me, watching as I swang my legs while I walked on my hands as if my legs were shrunken, broken. my legs were swinging beneath me and my arms were strong like tree trunks as I moved swiftly between the circle of surrounding people with their cruel eyes,
(and I finally realized to take back control, to make this dream my own, I’d have to accept it—)

I’m a freak.
and so I bared my fangs.

Posted in dreams what does it all mean nightmares rambling journal prose spilled ink | 3 notes
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sometimes it seems

I’m keeping a secret from myself, and maybe if I can decode the reflections of my irises than I’d reveal myself to me.

Posted in secrets spilled ink prose ramblings journal | 2 notes
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I never found the fossils of angels,
but I unearthed enough truth
to fill the grave of my faith.
…

—mkb,2011 

Posted in faith poetry prose religion spilled ink verse | 6 notes
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(Source: the-healing-nest)

Posted in light darkness prose poetry spilled ink | 229 notes
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Invisible Stories: No. 72

invisiblestories:

Don’t say you want love.

Say you want the morning light through a painted-flecked window; say you want the distance and the ache that foretells it; say you want the autumn air always arriving but that never arrives; a gust of wind scraping leaves along the pavement; hills rolling towards the sea;…
Posted in prose love writing | 240 notes
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You should date an illiterate girl

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

(via onnothingandeverything-deactiva)
Posted in illiterate writing prose dating vocabulary thoughts spilled ink | 16 notes
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One should always be drunk. That’s the great thing; the only question. Not to feel the horrible burden of Time weighing on your shoulders and bowing you to the earth, you should be drunk without respite.

Drunk with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please. But get drunk.

And if sometimes you should happen to awake, on the stairs of a palace, on the green grass of a ditch, in the dreary solitude of your own room, and find that your drunkenness is ebbing or has vanished, ask the wind and the wave, ask star, bird, or clock, ask everything that flies, everything that moans, everything that flows, everything that sings, everything that speaks, ask them the time; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird and the clock will all reply: ‘It is Time to get drunk! If you are not to be the martyred slaves of Time, be perpetually drunk! With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you please.’

— Get Drunk by Charles Baudelaire  (via solitudinal)

(Source: goldensutures)

Posted in Quotes get drunk passion prose advice time Great Quotes | 7 notes
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i sing the body electric: and also here

beautyaswesleep:

Here’s to walking in the dark, and the thunderous magnification. Here’s to rain that floats like milkweed or small snow under street lights. Rain that should make a sound, but doesn’t. Rain that is thin. Rain that should be fog, but is too heavy. Rain that looks the way a tiny universes would…
Posted in spilled ink poetry prose thoughts words | 5 notes
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it’s a strange feeling

to watch someone’s heart break in front of you. to be aware that you are the one doing the breaking, and to allow it to happen anyway. to watch him walk away without looking back, and step off the ledge. to know that he’s falling and you don’t look until he’s at the bottom. to see him below and his body is still whole, and to know his heart’s in pieces like spare pennies in a jar. a skeleton of hope is shattered porcelain. I feel guilty that I don’t hurt more, and I feel good that someone could care so much, and I feel guilty again that I let him. the real truth is, I fooled him with a phantom heart. a decoy to distract when I knew I couldn’t deliver the real one, the one I’ve never taken back from where it’s been kept.

Posted in prose spilled ink heartbreak who cares | 3 notes
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“two”

who are you to say that
a universe can reside within four walls?
I cannot thrive inside iron bars

to live each moment embracing a thought
not born from my own
what is being, when being becomes restricted by those before me
who accepted only what was given?
I want to shed my own luxuries

with eyes that are indifferent to the color of this room.
I won’t be confined to a world where I am
inevitably to be consumed by the subtle dust that permeates the air
how do you breathe?
when I am suffocated by what has been

it’s the promise of what could
and will be
that is the air that sustains me.


— mkb&trj,2008

Posted in Poetry Thoughts Prose Poems spilled ink | 3 notes
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all i need

every situation in life is one that I need, is an opportunity to grow, to become better than I was the day before. I will not be sad or angry, will not feel ashamed or resentful,

and most importantly I will not wish for things to be different.

instead I will be grateful for now, for this moment that lets me realize that I am better off. this moment that lets me be grateful to be rid of and far away from the only source of negativity in my life.

sitting here in silence, it is crazy to think the type of emotions and physiological responses that words can elicit. in reading that hatred, that spite, I took them into myself in that moment. I could feel their texture, could feel the malignancy within them. but now, with eyes that are watching the gray of the lake, I feel far away already. I feel a distance from those words because I know they are meant to hurt, and they will only succeed in hurting me if I allow them.

… I can also accept this completely and totally, ugliness and all. right now things will not change, and in this moment it is okay to feel a little sad and a little relieved. it is a mess but it is over, and most importantly it is not a mess that I need to clean up.


— mkb

Posted in acceptance growth journal prose writing spirituality ego transcendence | 20 notes
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