#abraham smith

[cornercrescent]

COWBOY STORY MAIN CHARACTER CAST BABY!!!!!! these guys are obviously from... a cowboy story that is unnamed at the moment! ill give descriptions of them and the story under the cut :]

whiskey: a wandering petty thief who once used to pretend to be an actual cowboy and helped a town out for a day or two, and then in the night would steal their possessions and leave without a trace. this all changed when jago, her friend who sometimes aided her on these missions, was killed by a sheriff that found him stealing from his own quarters. once whiskey discovered this, she killed the sheriff in vengeance and fled. whiskey was found by abraham, another sheriff, after weeks of running from the authorities. despite whiskey killing another sheriff, abraham protected her from the authorities instead of killing her. why? simply, because abraham needs a hitman :]

betty: abraham's wife that had her former husband die about 2 years ago and came to abraham's town in search of help. she's currently pregnant with abraham's child, and is guarded and taken care of by whiskey when she's not doing her hitman training. however, what abraham keeps secret from the rest of the town is that he didn't merely take her in and they naturally fell in love. betty and her husband were stranded one day, and they lived not that far away from abraham's town, so he helped them get back to their home and kept bringing them supplies to help them out to gain their trust. one night, abraham tried to kill betty's husband by smothering him with a pillow and then covering up the crime so that betty would come for him for help, but that didn't go exactly to plan as the husband wasn't asleep and it turned violent, and betty walked into abraham killing her husband. ever since, betty has been under constant surveillance from abraham.

abraham: the charismatic and religious sheriff of the town the story takes place in. obviously, behind his charming and kind veneer is a man who is manipulative and will turn violent to get what he wants. he's also Very Religious and this is why he needs hitmen. basically, abraham believes he is a "persecutor" sent by god to kill certain people who he thinks are unworthy/heretics or deserving of murder to "cleanse the world". however, because he doesn't want to do this himself, he enlists hitmen for him. however, abraham's main hitman, lazaro, has been declining in health recently, and he wants to enlist another hitman. whiskey is his first candidate, because she can be blackmailed (if you don't do this ill just execute you lol) and because the sheriff that whiskey killed actually happened to be on abraham's heretic hitlist!

these are basically the blurbs for the starting states of these characters and the story theyre in.. things will certainly develop and get complicated later on lol

[snitnation]

the land sounds you given a motioning over uneven and broached and breached land farms you touches you

Abraham Smith from Destruction of Man quoted in Heidi Gustafson, Dust to Dust: A Geology of Color

[placeofrest]

ABRAHAM, son of WILLIAM & MARY SMITH

Passed February XXIII. MDCCLXVI (23rd, 1866), aged 26 years

His epitaph reads:

     He is gone

And we shall never more behold him

     In this transitory world

But in heaven we hope to meet him 

     When on earth our race is run

             ───────

       In life and death peaceful.

SYMBOLISM: Open book (meaning faith, or book of life)

                        Full bloom flower (prime of life)

                        Ivy (eternal life, undying affection, memory)

                        Flowers (frailty of life)

[newcarriage]

Hello! In 2 weeks I'll be hosting a night of poetry and music for Abraham Smith. If you've heard Abe on stage, you know what a treat this will be. If you haven't, get ready for a performance like no other. See you there!

Thursday, July 12 at 7:30 pm Black Dog Cafe, St. Paul, MN

[saintbeetle]

how hunger boy mercer must you brain crane lay over lap one dream broom person starved down chaff rain pencil shaving ego peck of pimpled flesh on fire eat burnt crane eat burnt crane eat burnt crane who your gods then while you wait for the soupbird to unshade yr life in who the cleated teeth of rain in mist in whom the fired sibilant remnants a passing storm’s little unsuccessful denials of fire inside every song another song fruit teaches this white sun flesh the seed at the breast thread wrestled button the crane burnt eaten can’t stack a day’s strength a night’s rest at the unravel hotel truly hungry fools dream too but not of confluences not of gardenias not of pedigrees not the stony feats of insomniac sentinels mothered by the killing maze milk like junk wool milk like gauze milk like hesitancy might as well eat your own cane god and crawl

Why Eat Why Kill by Abraham Smith

[poetrysupportgroup]

how hunger boy mercer must you brain crane lay over lap one dream broom person starved down chaff rain pencil shaving ego peck of pimpled flesh on fire eat burnt crane eat burnt crane eat burnt crane who your gods then while you wait for the soupbird to unshade yr life in who the cleated teeth of rain in mist in whom the fired sibilant remnants a passing storm’s little unsuccessful denials of fire inside every song another song fruit teaches this white sun flesh the seed at the breast thread wrestled button the crane burnt eaten can’t stack a day’s strength a night’s rest at the unravel hotel truly hungry fools dream too but not of confluences not of gardenias not of pedigrees not the stony feats of insomniac sentinels mothered by the killing maze milk like junk wool milk like gauze milk like hesitancy might as well eat your own cane god and crawl

Poem of the day: August 18, 2016 Why Eat Why Kill // Abraham Smith

[amandaearl]

(Academy of American Poets)

[listen to this amazing poem  by Abraham Smith - AE]

[miragereviews-blog]

Review: Abraham Smith’s Ashagalomancy

Abraham Smith

Ashagalomancy

Action Books

2015

115 pages

Paperback, $15.95

   Abraham Smith seems to speak the English language. He uses English words. The title of his new book of poems, Ashagalomnacy, which is the diving of bones, perhaps provides a clue to the use, because the words themselves seem to be these very bones. That is, there is sense coming through them, but often it comes by the side, at one’s knees, or a tap on the shoulder, only to find no one’s there. The effect of the writing is nearly pointillist, in a way, which is not to summon up hazy days at a lake where bourgeois dreams are made. But it has a cumulative, tidal quality. The worlds of Smith’s poetry offer up a delightfully twisted mix of rural oasis and forays into the modern, or whatever period this is. The lines can move off into plucky rushes of assonance and alliteration, with a kind of chipping rhythm. There is moon-sloshed hollerin’ too. He’s a twangy sage. A bit like Bob Dylan in his Bringin It All Back Home phase. Surreal, peopled, casually spiritual, bird herding or hearing, with a lot of lightly touched upon colorful events that one sort of gets the gist of. For instance: “had to take care not to call the world beautiful / ether word head wounds sometimes made / the world what he read about loss is yum / a shaving cream cake / that plain bean vine knife fizzing thru.” The scenes within the poems are natural packages of rueful crooning, though never sentimental, somewhat Steinbeckian, but no Monterey, Salinas, here, more Midwesternally echoed and pastured. Structurally, the poems begin in the same refrain throughout the book: “In the old days”—which is seemingly both sincere and a feint. (One hears an old codger on a condemned porch holding forth in its lines.) Smith, though, is not an old man, but a youngin’, as he might say. So, the effect of a younger person taking on the backward-looking stance is worth a smile. The tales told are whacky, charming, and restless, often sort of giving up on themselves, and just starting again in a new direction for no reason or worry. There’s an ease in his work because of this; it is wayward and yet present, halting and then flowing out into space. There’s no one alive writing like Smith, and maybe only Frank Stanford was the closest literary kin. To read his poetry is a resonant adventure, a green dream, but to hear it in person, with his stamping foot and bobbing possessed head, is an even greater glory. Glory be.