monday, august 17

river water, broken sidewalks, stolen lines
folksong, the personality in art, the ones it seems like no one wrote
insects flashing in the falling wheat, some truckbed rattle
the dust after sundown, instant tea in sweating plastic jugs
fireflies, fireworks, flooded fields
the saturday evening post half a century under the floor
street corner cardboard signs, concert fliers in the gutter
credit cards, crumpled ATM receipts
bad paintings in the cafes everywhere
going across the ocean and giving up
(a manifesto? jesus, i can't even write a postcard)
bad sex, good sex you shouldn't have
jealousy and theft, gratitude and resignation
mistakes i'll never make again, lies i don't stop telling
nothing gets you high like it used to
yellow line drift, bluegrass, johnny cash
apple orchard refuse, sweet smoke and cornstalk shatter
wind in the streets outside the watering hole
broken glass on the 10th street overpass
plato's laughter in the coffee house
french roast refills a quarter, cigarettes and pipe tobacco
the back stairs at some house party
kitchen card tables and gas burner onions
piano key cacophony, guitars i still don't play
busted watches, bookstores, anodyne
condoms in the clothesdrier
channels in the rock, red dirt on my shoes
traintracks, dead elevators, leaves on highway 2
blue eyes crying in the rain
the materials at hand
the stories that aren't yours, any more
mixtapes meant for other people
making out in the car, making conversation over beers
making much of little enough
nothing you can say, everything you want