THE GUNPOWDER AVALANCHE

My name is Lewis Mundt. I'm writer in Minneapolis and most days am trying to figure out how the world is put together. I've got about zero answers and a lot of trying behind and ahead of me. But I think it'll be all right.


Twitter: @beardpoetry | facebook.com/beardpoetry
~ Tuesday, April 22 ~
Permalink
13 notes
reblogged via buttonpoetry
~ Monday, April 21 ~
Permalink

20/31

smallsholmbo:

Whoever you are
I hope you like jazz.
My dad has always loved jazz.
It is something you can maybe talk about.
I hope the music easily sweeps you up
and makes you believe
in something more than us.
I find the whole world to be filled
with handfuls of light
making me believe
in something bigger than this.

I hope all your white shirts have stains.
Not because I think you are careless
or don’t know how to eat spaghetti
but because your life never slowed down enough
to not climb to the top of that huge tree
or down into that cavernous ditch
or clean off all the pen smudges
when you went to scratch your neck
poetry utensil in hand.

I hope both your knees have scars
from the fool you once were,
still are
about pretending you knew how to skateboard
surfboard
and threw yourself in
instruction manual getting lost
in the path not taken.

I hope you drink your coffee
black.
I don’t know another way to make it.
And I hope you prefer the sunrise.
Because it has always proved
the next day we get to start again.
Even after the day has covered you
in its exhausting dust
and you can believe in the sunrise.

I hope you like bare feet
and awful movies
and cowboy boots
and pillowcases that can never stay on their pillows
and early Sunday nights
and foxes
and bicycle riding
and small hands.

And if you maybe you do
I was wondering
when I can no longer see,
could you make sure I never have to
look for your hand.
Let our palms already be lying
next to each other
whether intertwined or not.
Do not be far.

And I’ll stay here.
For as long as we both
like jazz
and can eat breakfast.
I’ll stay here.

- Steph Holmbo


8 notes
reblogged via smallsholmbo
~ Tuesday, April 15 ~
Permalink
5,000 views and no dislikes?  Did I do it?  Did I win YouTube?

5,000 views and no dislikes?  Did I do it?  Did I win YouTube?

Tags: sorry that was totally self-serving and doesn't really matter
6 notes
~ Saturday, April 12 ~
Permalink

You have 6 tattoos.
Full lips. Good, strong hands.
You have 7 freckles on your back,
they map out the big dipper.

You have a scar on your left arm
you carved in high school.
The first time you pulled off your t shirt
I traced the line with my fingers and fell in love
with your strength.

You are a hero
for living from that moment
to this one. You never need to apologize
for how you chose to survive

Your body is a map I know every inch of
and if anyone else
were to kiss me, all they would taste
is your name.

— Clementine von Radics (via beeewalsh)

(Source: liquidlightandrunningtrees)


9,585 notes
reblogged via beeewalsh
Permalink Tags: 30/30 poetry lewis mundt nick lantz loneliness
5 notes
~ Tuesday, February 11 ~
Permalink

This also points to my complete inability to admit that Philip Seymour Hoffman is gone.

Tags: using tumblr like twitter sorry not sorry
Permalink

Call me crazy, but I think I want to try to start using this to post essays, especially about music.  I don’t know what that looks like right now, but if someone could hold me accountable to at least try that, that’d be rad.

(This may be because I watched Almost Famous again last night with my partner and just sat there crying by myself [she’s really sick and was really asleep.])


5 notes
Permalink

Date A Girl Who

thefrenemy:

Date a girl who breathes. Date a girl who takes in oxygen the same way you take in bullshit tropes, in and out and constantly. Date a girl who will set you on fire because she is a dragon, a warrior, a brutal reminder that she’s not a girl who triumphs herself “not like other girls” because she knows they’re all different. Date a girl who isn’t romanticized because she reads or travels or is a cool girl. Date a girl who you don’t call “a cool girl” to imply that other girls are lesser and she’s only unique because you’ve labeled her that way. Date a girl who doesn’t get “points” for liking video games. Date somebody you think is a “slut,” you elitist old-timey prick. Date a girl who wears grandpa sweaters because she ate all the grandpas. Date a girl who bores you with tidbits about the weather. Date an imperfect girl. Date the movie 500 Days of Summer. Date a picture of Jennifer Lawrence holding War & Peace and a slice of pizza. Date a pizza in the shape of a girl. Date a girl who likes the tv shows and the music you hate. Date a brown m&m. Date a girl who doesn’t make you her special little snowflake in all your efforts to seem superior and grandiose. Date a girl who spoils all your favorite movies, you little shit. Date a girl who puts her hair in a cute top bun and drinks tea and smears mac-and-cheese all over her body like it’s the mud of all the mountains you dream of. Date a girl who eats the fucking food off your plate and puts ex-lax in your oatmeal. Date a girl who smells like the sea and that one writing class you took where you wrote a bunch of poems about cigarettes by the beach and took up smoking cloves. Date a girl who has been dead for FORTY YEARS. Date a girl who reminds you of the ex that still thinks you’re an asshole. Date a girl who is a mermaid that will drag you to the bottom of the sea. Pearly white teeth, sharp. Huddled ocean fear. You can hear yourself screaming. Date the girl who haunts your house. Date a girl who makes you question yourself, the way you make poetry your lifestyle and use words like “streetlamp” and “spine” and smoke signals” in every day conversation you smug fuck. Date a girl who can recite books: if you give a mouse a cookie, Apollo 13 junior novelization, that children’s book with the Rottweiler that had no words (edit: 3 words). Date a girl who poops. Date a girl who gets annoyed when you show up late, even if it’s only 5 minutes. Date a girl who talks too much during movies. Date a girl who sweats. Date a girl with arm hair. Date a girl with flabby arms. Date a girl who chews her cuticles. Date a girl because nobody’s perfect. Date a girl who wears the high-waisted pants and the deep maroon lipstick you hate. Date a girl who saved somebody on the Hindenberg. Date a girl with real anxiety who makes you realize it’s all not a fucking escape to beautiful things. Date a girl who is a snake. Date a girl who eats your heart. Date your mirror. Date a photoset. Date a girl who. Date a girl what. Date a girl who likes you. Date a plant. Go fuck yourself.


1,615 notes
reblogged via thefrenemy
~ Tuesday, December 24 ~
Permalink

Modern Baseball - Your Graduation

it’s been a day or years of me thinkin’ ‘bout you everyday
sometimes for hours, sometimes in passing

you weren’t the only one
who thought of us that way

(Source: jewfro)


15,988 notes
reblogged via kaitydavie
~ Monday, December 23 ~
Permalink
They tell us the people we love are 72.8% water-
there is no such thing as crying,
we are only trying to turn ourselves inside out.
This is a noble pursuit

Lewis Mundt, excerpt from “Water” (via pigmenting)

(Someone quoted my poem and it’s gotten over 40,000 notes and that’s super, super bizarre to me.)


46,627 notes
reblogged via pigmenting