JVL
Love Begins
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
noise dept.
Today's Document
almost home
todays bird
🪼
Keni
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
roma★
Mike Driver
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
@theartofmadeline
⁂
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Not today Justin
if i look back, i am lost
trying on a metaphor
Kaledo Art
seen from Japan
seen from Italy
seen from Japan
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Czechia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Iraq
seen from Finland
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Spain
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
@psalmsbelowsealevel
“first course”
she leaned down into the trash, grabbed
the plastic container.
she looked around and opened
the container—
a half eaten falafel sandwich soaking
in tzatziki fell to the ground. she picked up the sandwich and bit a piece
her eyes closed.
she bit another piece, spitting
out an unground chickpea.
she ran her finger through
the hummus and licked it.
“smoked turkey”
it was raining. the newspaper atop
his lunchbox was soaked.
he drank the cognac. he wiggled
the bottle, threw it
in the bushes with the orange
headband. a terrier jolted
to the headband, sniffing it,
and hurried off after a pigeon.
he patted his jacket pocket
patted his back pockets.
he opened his lunchbox, grabbed
the watermelon wedge, unwrapping it
from the cellophane. he looked around,
biting the watermelon. he whistled
and looked around. he wrapped
the rest of the watermelon
whistling again.
Thank you @gardenofmercury and everyone who got me to 5 reblogs!
“smoked turkey”
it was raining. the newspaper atop
his lunchbox was soaked.
he drank the cognac. he wiggled
the bottle, threw it
in the bushes with the orange
headband. a terrier jolted
to the headband, sniffing it,
and hurried off after a pigeon.
he patted his jacket pocket
patted his back pockets.
he opened his lunchbox, grabbed
the watermelon wedge, unwrapping it
from the cellophane. he looked around,
biting the watermelon. he whistled
and looked around. he wrapped
the rest of the watermelon
whistling again.
“saturday morning in may”
it was raining
and across the yard in the lime tree
he thought he saw
two squirrels circling.
he stepped toward the tree
squinting.
he plucked ash from the joint
its smoke floating.
he looked back at the tree.
it was the neighbor’s
two ferrets.
he woke up to
the puppy licking
the blackberry stain
on his khakis. he closed
his eyes, the puppy still licking,
and opened them. he pushed
the puppy away
and stood. he pulled
the curtain back and studied
the two muscovy ducks floating
in the swimming pool.
“zoo keeper”
collins won’t come down.
he is on the roof
of our sprinter van, smoking a joint
and dancing at the fireworks.
a motorcycle goes up
on one wheel
running a red light.
“hey,” he shouts, throwing
the bottle in his hand at the bike.
“watch it,” I say.
“no,” he says.
“we can’t allow that,”
he says
and then comes down
from the van.
he reaches in the ice chest.
we can hear the music.
bass guitar
hanging from the ceiling—
broken shoulder
jogger
swats at dragonfly
migrating
a pianist
loosens his necktie
june heat
afternoon gray—
in the blacksmith’s mustache
pretzel crumbs
“chipped marbles”
around the corner on piety
street near the record store . . .
the shadowboxing squirrel.
crack pipe near crushed
pepsi can.
“3am traffic”
he closed his eyes.
a waiter tapped
his shoulder, placing
the cocktail glass
on a coaster.
he nodded
at the waiter.
a couple in matching
red sox jerseys sat down
at the table next to his.
he stirred his drink
with the small straw,
took the straw out, licking
the bottom of it,
and put it on a napkin.
he took another
sip of the drink.
the saxophone was loud.
he swatted at the termite crawling
on the napkin, knocking
the laminated menu
to the ground.
“gun range bullets”
sarge waits
for the crows on the awning’s roof.
they take turns pecking at
a dead baby bird.
one flies off
sarge scurrying behind
spinning.
. . . phoning a pawn shop.
swamp rabbit
roasting over fire—
asian tigers
the chicken breast came first
followed by the asparagus.
he did not flinch
wiping sauce from his cheek.
she sniffed and threw the spoon
before sliding the cutting board
to the floor.
dusting—
the baby’s pacifier
in a leather boot
in my pocket
i swing the bat
borrowed lighter