[delphinidin4]

[icemankazansky]

Omg y'all Y'ALL

[jellyfishdreamofstarlight]

3 years ago, I wonder if they have gone through all that rice yet…..

[theblehthatbloos]

Oh

[nosuchthingasaburdenonsociety]

There was a day in 2021 this post was on my dashboard three times a page

[crabpeach]

As an American, when they said truck load I was imagining an 18-wheeler style truck so I’m not too surprised by the final picture. There has to be like 200 - 300 bags of rice on that truck at LEAST. OPs BIL was incredibly lucky he only had to take 23 bags of rice from that thing.

[thesaltofcarthage]

THE RICE TRUCK STORY HAS PHOTOS

[teaboot]

Someday their great-grandchildren will ask why there are so many bags of rice at home and a story will begin, “Well, your great-grandfather was tired of going to the store every day for rice…”

[gothgrr666]

IG : @emperorofmischief

[drunkenskunk]

[goodlives-badstories]

Vera learns to drive, (2016) colorized 🐀

[goodlives-badstories]

the forest clearing (2024); pastel and ink

am i the only one feeling existentially discorporated this year? say hey if you’re presently a non corporeal ooze, an omniscient fog, or just a lil’ guy 🤠

image description (idk how to describe this one, but i will certainly try):

a geometric deer of primarily pigments of pink, purple, and blue is pictured in a forest clearing. A yellow beam of light falls through the wisp-like branches which reach toward the sky. The forest floor is layers of clumpy blacks and blues, which give way to greyish purple and pink segments. These segments resemble that of a face, perhaps a bird, glaring upwards at the aforementioned deer.

[goodlives-badstories]

image description:

an abstracted human with arms crossed lies on their back in a field—both washed out and lacking color. their head is tilted slightly away from the viewer. from their mouth sprouts a ruby-red, many-petaled flower; it’s roots pour from their mouth across their face and spill over onto their exposed neck. on their chest sits a fox drawn in fiery oranges.

text transcription:

and here, at the end of time, I wondered whether those words which sprouted from my lips were petals or thorns of mine or another’s creation or if they belonged to some primordial and malevolent lie that to name was to create and nothing to rend spirit from object and leave nothing behind, that to name is a weapon to destroy.

—

I’m trying to get back into drawing again, expect more questionable, pastel creations for trying, silver-tone times coming soon 🫡

[goodlives-badstories]

x. new order received

boxes like burdens i bear

their weight and bide the days

until i see the stars on the shatters

i called the horizon home

and i stock the shelves with idle thoughts

and fractured dreams of beings

whole epoxy seams in the bedroom

at night fall apart every day

break free of the place which consumes

your days spent wandering the shelves

for hope

i would see the way home

[goodlives-badstories]

ix. faces

vibrations shake the countertop awake

a binding light in the darkness

i see your face on my telephone screen

a glimmer of hope in the night

 do you even know how you saved me

holding back walls which cave in around me

which threaten to consume my whole

every night you lead me home

[goodlives-badstories]

viii. on the shore

washing in with the tide

dark on the horizon

back on that distant shore

i once called home

and i see them now

the truths we shared

the lies we told

lie on the shoreline

 and i wish you had told me

that the ocean always wins

that the house always pulls you back

he called Michigan a blackhole

told me to escape

to swim away while i still could

and i did

 and now i stand here shivering

alone on that distant shore

and i believe him now

i felt the pull of the earth

it beckons me down

gravity suddenly feels so heavy

and the horizon fades

no light in a blackhole

no stars to guide me

i forgot them on that distant shore

            and i keep walking

i cry for what i have found

what i have lost

left behind on that distant shore

[goodlives-badstories]

self-reflection

another night together,

alone with my thoughts.

i could only think of the people i left back home,

like the glasses i left on my shelf,

and if you saw me like they do,

would you still see me whole?

or would you would you forget how to see more than the fragments of my body strewn across the stained wet pavement?

for in the nights we shared,

you never dared to peer into the shadows,

and see me smiling back at you,

until the night became day

and the smile became a facsimile.

those  people--

the ones i left--

they saw me whole;

they saw me broken.

maybe you never wanted to.

but i see you in the night and i gaze upon you,

unafraid of the scars you may force upon my brittle heart.

for you are but a memory of who i could be and i am becoming a me who can peer through the dark and see you and whisper:

“i love you.”

[goodlives-badstories]

the fabric of our love (unraveling)

after all these years my body hemmed together falls apart in the footnotes.

an afterthought and it all comes back to gnaw at the edges.

fooling myself back together every morning.

you know it’s only in seeing you whole that i fall apart.

everyday breaking down my fabric by your lies.

i dyed blue like teardrops in that house,

faded to a memory in your burning gaze,

but i’m hewn from a stronger cloth now,

eyes once cast down now level a challenge.

and scars become a callous,

and my body is on fire,

a taste you can’t ignore,

for in my distance i reformed.

your words snag at my threads bared to you,

but i don’t unravel at your touch like i used to,

i stand whole at the end of the world,

and you can’t stand it.

[staticrgb]

Do we not cling so desperately Our arms open and hoping That one day we will be received For who we truly are Instead of who they want us to be

[goodlives-badstories]

vii. voyeur (i think i like standing on the pedestal)

there by the wall do you see it on a stage we build a place to stand over our home

a hymn whistles through the room still and sullen on the forefront of a new era they say and i say i like your smile an accomplishment we both bear for the sake of losing what we have there

and there is a crash of a glass box breaking when we hug and you tell me that you’re proud of me tonight while you’re hammering the finishing touches on an object of voyeuristic display kneeling bruises on the concrete basement base meant a pedestal to stand on but its strange that i like giving them a show to show them they broke the box not me and i’m still standing if wavering like your voice

gravel roads in old town speak of a lonelier time solitudes i can’t forget but don’t seem to matter anymore than the fact that you did eighty percent of the work

the years pass and you called me an idol a leader of this band of misfits toy houses we call home in the moment

and then forget to call back our parents for we don’t grow in family photos but family collages no constellations of faces elevated on their own stages

my rise feels like a show for you broadcast live entertainment

but i don’t mind it it feels good to see you adore the shards of glass i call a body reflecting in the light and i feel ethereal i feel seen

a specter of me exists between those parts seen and unseen bent over the horizon line of the basement wall a spider catches gnats in its web in the back corner we clear away for the new space

we built together of wood and nails and your face idling on the roadside smiling me into legacy when i’m eighty percent built by them i like feeling like i’m wholly me and this is a legacy worth remembering

[goodlives-badstories]

vi. the broken horizon (the box)

the linear threads twisted back gnawing on

the past or at least the way i remember your faces when i broke the glass—

in case of emergency from

that pretty glass box wrapped in blue ribbon

i called myself a different name back then but

i want to think you still saw me for i didn’t know the box transparent

wrapped in blue doubt

wraps us neatly with a bow on top

a care packaged a burden i bear

you lift me up that night and i don’t understand

what you see but i gaze out through frosted glass and

i think i see myself reflect from your iris

i never knew i looked like the me you always knew

[goodlives-badstories]

v. should the day break

if the sun touches the horizon we broke,

will our joy bring us home?

if i see me whole,

will the horizon fix itself in our image?

if i rewrite the poem,

 will you forget my voice?

if i lie,

 will you still see my truth?

will you still hold me close?

[goodlives-badstories]

iv. the day we broke the horizon

the morning we’re walking to an end date of our own separate footsteps in frost-bitten imprint of the grass crunching out the songs we sang before the sun broke the horizon

and i can’t remember the words but i can remember your face joining mine and the off-key notes

we were friends back then or maybe just acquaintances but we were there in the sunlight polishing the bags under our eyes flashback to the night before and there was a building a fire escape we climbed and saw your face reflected back in the moonlight

and the late night city lights the towers downtown reaching up to the five stars you can actually see in this city over our voices they stand silent gods of a past we had no place in and i see it now a hint of what it all means to lead us from this strangers backyard we called the university

we called them for advice and they said to trust each other unhelpful entirely unhelpful but we took their words and made a city of our own and when the sun broke the horizon and the city collapsed inward onto itself we stood skyscrapers we stood irreverent the past horizon broken we stood unassailable and the world would be the same tomorrow but we we were rebuilding it in our image and never would it tower over us again but open up to us and we would be whole

but for now we’re singing a song i can’t remember as we find the hints of our future and we’re almost done now just bear the truth with me i promise i’ll find the punctuation soon

[goodlives-badstories]

iii. the day i could not see me they saw me whole

the sun exonerated the ocean

which weighed us down

 a mirage

a family

 sifting through forms

our forms together

become the ocean

and hold me down

become our own

 our difference

our whole

 shared

defy the tide

we stand

still moving onward

we stand on our own

 our need

our defiance

 we swim

until we no longer

need it

to swim we float

collective pasts home

 a past

a future

 rains down in offering

the sun shining through

[goodlives-badstories]

ii. the day you saw me whole (i saw me broken)

ten feet under the blacklights

of the nights i found a self to nest

in—truths uttered in my broken voice

on the breakwater—

breaking down—the elements

we held so close—closing the door

lest the truths leak out into the night  

i saw you—see me magnified

thru clear waters—clear away

the silt so that i might see

myself—on the surface.

[goodlives-badstories]

i. the day you saw me broken (i saw me whole)

the first day seared in retrospect

the tumult in your eyes

a challenge

i fell into the water

and you taught me to swim

for myself the tide

a challenge

fight against the current

a self condensed into a plea

a drop in the ocean

reconstituted meaning in the moments

washed away

in the full moon—light hearts laid

heavy

tides—i never could stand in the way

of fluid truths

and your solid dreams

 you found me on the shore

lined up to fall under

ten feet deep under a moon

you held love in your pocket

the surface

never enough

pull me deeper

so that i can find a body

that bears the truth