There’s this mistaken idea in a lot of heroic stories that the oppressive evil villains can’t afford to kill the rebellious hero because they can’t risk turning them into a martyr. But that’s not how oppressive evil villains — or oppressive evil systems — work. They can kill without making martyrs because everyone they kill they also actively disgrace.

Thus when Ferguson, Missouri, police arrested the wrong Henry Davis then beat him bloody in a jail cell, they had to consequently thuggify him. They denied him his status as an innocent victim by charging him with a crime — four counts of property damage, because when one police officer kicked him in the head, his blood splattered onto four officers’ uniforms.

That’s a bitterly flimsy pretext for criminalizing Mr. Davis, but that’s what’s so disgraceful about this process of disgrace-ing. It doesn’t matter how flimsy or dishonest the pretext may be, it works and will keep working just as long as most people — most white people, that is — are eager to participate in the disgrace-ing and the thuggifying of innocent victims.

He “resisted arrest,” he didn’t do what he was told as quickly as he should have, he may have shoved someone, he smoked a joint, he flirted with a white girl, he broke the Sabbath and disturbed the peace. … Those are all the same thing.

One thing that’s particularly frustrating to me, as a Christian, is that it seems so many of my fellow white Christians love to imagine that they would stand beside Longinus on Calvary, saying, “Truly this man was a son of God.” Yet at the same time they’re unwilling to look upon the slain body of Michael Brown, or Trayvon Martin, or Oscar Grant, and say the same thing.
Slacktivist - “Innocent? He was a violent thug — a vandal who threatened to tear down a House of God” (via imathers)

Can’t remember whether or not Fred Clarke is auto-reblog but if he isn’t he is now

was in Vegas over the weekend and happened through the arts district, which is between downtown and the strip and features some rad art. love that cowboy.

ratrapss:

apparently amazon thinks i’m a masochist

Shit-talking Billy Collins is auto-reblog territory

ratrapss:

apparently amazon thinks i’m a masochist

Shit-talking Billy Collins is auto-reblog territory

so there’s this moment in Man of Steel

where Zod is explaining to Superman that his (Zod’s) purpose in life, down to his very DNA, is to protect the people of Krypton. even if that means genociding earth he will, and indeed must, do what he can. But Superman sliced his ship in half with his laser eyes and with the ship went the birthing chamber and with the birthing chamber went all the would-be Kryptonians, and Zod warned Superman before he did this that if he pulled his laser eyes stunt that there would be no more Kryptonians, that would be it. and Superman made his choice and the ship went kablooey. I get why Superman made the choice that he did, I really do, and if such a choice has a right answer his was probably the right one. but Supes, man, you just ended a people. try to look like you give a toot:

Brooke Candy, brooke candy brooke candy brooke candy. Brooke, candy brooke candy. Brooke candy brooke candy; brooke candy.Brooke Candy.

Brooke Candy, brooke candy brooke candy brooke candy. Brooke, candy brooke candy. Brooke candy brooke candy; brooke candy.

Brooke Candy.

there’s a whole lot going on here and most of it is AMAZING

(via trillwavefeminism)

yo I know PRO is like a mostly-joking term but goddamn that is so PRO it is terrifying

yo I know PRO is like a mostly-joking term but goddamn that is so PRO it is terrifying

(via velogogo)

imathers:

project-blackbird:

Emily Vancamp as Sharon Carter in “Captain America: The Winter Soldier”

Here’s an example of what we call a “soft no”. Sharon turns down Steve’s offer in a way that’s meant not to insult him but never actually uses the word “no”.

Steve clearly gets the message, though, and importantly offers to leave her alone. Sharon’s comment afterwards gives him an opportunity to try again later, but he doesn’t press and respects her rejection of his company even though it’s probably hurt his feelings a bit.

Just in case you ever wonder “What would Captain America do?”; there you go.

Dear guys complaining about the friendzone: a dude who was frozen in ice since the 40s is officially better at reading social cues than you are (and respecting other people, but we already knew that).

washing scrubs from the infectious disease ward in the building’s washing machine seems irresponsible, agent carter

heartbarf:

Ever wanted to read nine poems about Lana Del Rey songs? You’re in luck, because I wrote nine and they’re here at boringrain.com.
Many thanks to Nitsuh for helping me with this.

THEY GOT MY LETTERS

heartbarf:

Ever wanted to read nine poems about Lana Del Rey songs? You’re in luck, because I wrote nine and they’re here at boringrain.com.

Many thanks to Nitsuh for helping me with this.

THEY GOT MY LETTERS

(via agrammar)

gpoy

gpoy

if in that moment / it is clear that in our entire, graceless rage / it is what we have, and all along, / most yearned for, / then let us be spared by that which has the power to spare us / the knowledge that it is too late / to disclaim anger, find the will / for love and tenderness, beg / for pardon

again and again and again

John Engels, “For the lately dead” The Kenyon Review, Autumn 1984.  (via sorryeveryone)

I lay on the cream shag carpet with my brother
and argue what a kobold is, and is not. I am nine.
Behind the oblong dresser in the basement
is a white stub of chalk with a wolf spider
crouching on it. It does not know I am about to pick it up.

When I am twenty-one, I clutch a cold ten dollar bill.
The gas attendant has a gold tooth.
Says, what are you all dressed up for, missy.
I smooth the gray wool of my bridge coat.
A bell chimes and my shoulder blades flinch.
I cannot see the snowflakes melting into my cuffs.
No eyes watch my body shuffle back to the car
across the ice, no witnesses.

Years later, a lover’s shadow traipses diagonally
across the floor of the limehouse. He’s just told me
he didn’t fall in love with me. The moon in splinters
across stack piles of buildings. I open his refrigerator,
gulp milk from a glass bottle.
There is nothing left for me to do.

My brother has been dead for nine years. A kobold:
a kind of sprite with thin, ivy-colored arms.
See, he is not here to dispute this.
This is what I think when the lover asks why I am
so quiet. My body shaped like a C at the foot of his bed.
My fingers coiled in blankets. Thick and coconut white.
I miss everything.

Regina DiPerna, “Where My Body Has Been” from The Boston Review (via postcardsforpoetry)

(via bostonreview)

poetsorg:

Advice to young poets from Mark Wunderlich. 
To see more postcards from our 2012 Poets Via Post program, visit poets.org.

why not

i love my mother

poetsorg:

Advice to young poets from Mark Wunderlich

To see more postcards from our 2012 Poets Via Post program, visit poets.org.

why not

i love my mother