I find myself singing
Hank Williams under my breath.
The stone of the sky opens.
The voice of Luke the Drifter
Intoned in thunder:
"Alabama, patron saint of car crashes.
Doomed traveler, all you car do is pray"
-Jason Baldinger, 'The Patron Saint of Car Crashes.'
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee
-Rabindranath Tagore, GITANJALI, no. 34
What part of the courageous brain understands things?
Who figured it out from there?
How?
Why were they luck--and presuming they were, why are we not?
Is safety a big part of love? Or is recklessness the important stuff?
Is there gold in the hills of being stupid?
Is there silver, at least?
Did America die with Grant Wood?
Did the requiem cease to be an option with Mozart?
One head of hair must have stuck out above the rest before now.
Otherwise we might not have known to keep going,
That we were right.
A kink of disastrousness must have been growing beneath the surface for us
To watch and pity,
And disregard in the moonlight we've admired.
Name That Trauma:: K Cozy on a Angry Animal Record Cover
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Hello! I'm wondering if any out there of a certain age can help out. This
is probably going to be pretty dang obscure. I have a vivid memory of
seeing, i...
2 days ago