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how’s life?

gr8 how’s urs

fluttering-slips:

This lost person I loved. Loved for a hundred years. When I find her. Find her in a forest. In a cabin under smoke and clouds shaped like smoke. When I find her and call her name (nothing) and knock (nothing) and build a machine that believes it’s God and the machine calls her name (nothing) and knocks (nothing). When I tear the machine down and she runs from the cabin pointing a gun at my memories and telling me to leave, stranger, leave, man of hammers. When I can’t finish that story. When I get to the gun pointed at my head. When I want it to go off. When everything I say to anyone all day long is bang. That would be today. When I can’t use her name. All day long. Soft as cotton, tender as kiss. Bang.

Bob Hicok, “Elegy with Lies,” Elegy Owed (Copper Canyon Press, 2013)

insane---world

bassiter

Take Me Home, Country Roads except on your back porch on a summer evening

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Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver except it’s playing from your neighbor’s radio that you can hear from your back porch, which you sit out on to relax in spite of the loud buzzing from the lightbulb and the hoards of moths that flock to it on summer evenings like this.