One of my favorite photos of Win Butler, taken by my ever-so-wonderful and talented friend Martin C. Pariseau during Arcade Fire’s outdoor free show in Montreal on September 22nd.
We were driving to your funeral
and our father was not crying
because he has a way
of tying ribbons around grief.
It was the year we learned
the piercing that prefaces the blood
holds the most delicate of darknesses.
Then it was the year we opened
all our faucets & waited for the sea
to bleed to death. Then it was the year
we set fire to your mitt. Then, suddenly
the year we started to believe
every thorn was just a bridge.
Then the year all we talked about
was boxing. Then the year
my stomach hurt all year, & then
the year no one spoke of you.
If there were an antonym for suicide
we could all choose when to be born.
I would have been born after that day
so I could not remember you.
So my fingers would stop pointing
at all the things that aren’t there.
Timber Timbre, you connect with my soul.
spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
i’m haunted by all
the space that i
will live without
by Richard Brautigan
I want to marry the Dinder House and have tons of tiny baby English mansions with it.