May 25, 2012
menthols
I'm back on a familiar porch, riddled and knotted as it is in memory. Toxic in its remittance of questions ending in insufficient sighs. What will you do? And there's no Samuel Jackson about this place, no Robert Duvall from Get Low - but closer, I'll admit, to the latter.
I've got a cigarette between my fingers as I'm typing this, using my middle finger as my index and it seems to be doing the job. Tennessee Honey in my mouth. Who are you? Butts and casual indifference; still a friend pulls into the driveway out front, and I can here the 4.2 litre.
What is this to me?
Even weaponized as you are, a tank on the lazy river only billows like exhaust. So, to suffice, I'm breathing.