m. ward poison cup new kerrang i get ideas get to the table on time primitive girl too young to die post-war to go home fuel for fire chinese translation vincent o’brien
my morning jacket state of the art holdin’ on to black metal compound fracture first light mahgeetah bermuda highway gideon tropics you wanna freak out circuital wordless chorus touch me i’m going to scream pt 2 feel you o is the one that is real spring one big holiday the bear wasted love love love
Hummer lyrics. I don’t use my own words. You know this. Are you free? Do you feel love is real?
Well, I was gonna say, I thought freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.
Love Janis. God that’s a good book. I have literally hundreds of excerpts. How’s the reading? It’s a lecture, yeah?
Are you asking me or are those more song lyrics?
Literally the same song. Anyway. I hope it’s a good reading. I hope you like it. But it’s fine if you don’t. Throw it in the fire.
Well, I haven’t hacked into the song lyrics part of your brain yet to copy everything to mine.
I feel you working on it, though.
It’s a great reading, and the lecture format suits it.
In your beanbag, under your Christmas lights. Sage burning. Just sifting through the lyrics files, which take up more than half of the shelves.
That sounds awesome. What am I wearing?
Rainbow fluffy onesie. And I just assumed you were talking about Janis, even though Kris wrote it.
I was talking about Janis for sure even though he wrote it.
You have a space in my mind. And in my heart. You can hang out there anytime you want. Sorry about the mess. I threw a couple of parties and housekeeping is on strike.
I will forgive you for not inviting me to the parties as long as you don’t expect me to clean. Plus, I would never cross a picket line.
I’d have invited you. And you alone.
Even if I spent the whole evening, trying to convince you to give the housekeeping union what they want?
I imagine it to be pretty well organized, tbh, though some things are likely thrown willy nilly in trunks and closets. Likely needs a good deep cleaning. I’m open to negotiations with housekeeping. I have no idea where they went.
They went out to find their own rainbow, fluffy onesies.
I get that. It leaves a lot to the imagination. It’s a vibe.
Jesus stands on rooftops telling kids to tie their shoes but they’re busy sewing patches with strings of sturdy blues and in a matchbox in a mailbox lies her cross on a chain with the dust in the air caught by too-late rain for destiny’s a recycle bin and death a dirty lane and the sky is all unfinished thoughts and hope, a weather vane and in a locked box in a fire box lies her life without chains with creosote scented air that smells like city rain while the past closes its oak drawer and hate drops its blind man’s cane there is a madly spinning storm and hope a fallen weather vane.
that is hands-down the best hire-me letter i’ve ever read. i sincerely hope you get everything your heart desires. when you two get down here give me a ring and i’ll set up a nice little welcome.
Neuroses? I’ve got neuroses. I’m a bitter, cynical, egomaniacal, self-deprecating hypocrite who trusts the hyperbole of the late Lester Bangs over the sagest moanings of her own junkie mother. Politics? That’s small potatoes, man. That’s nothing but ketchup on the double order of scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped, diced, peppered and capped, as the Waffle Housers say it. I know nil, nothing about Atlanta politics, but with the right kind of eyes you can take that as a boon. I’m tabula rasa, man, and jaded as I am, the Creative Loaf is like raisin toast to mine eyes that hath seen nothing but potato sandwich bread crusts for years.
Politics? It’s amusement, Ice-Capades for the carefully dressed with their carefully worded slogans, whether they be wily senators or drum-circling causeheads or just the average knowlittle-nik. Me, I like Ayn Rand and P.J. O’Rourke, Dr. Laura and Al Franken. I appeared on New York television during a fortuitous afternoon in August, 2004 dressed (with mask) as Richard Nixon as part of a publicity stunt put on by the LebowskiFest and Billionaires For Bush people. I listen to Fox News Radio and wore a shirt with a picture of Bush on it over the word LIAR! to vote in a rural western Kentucky elementary school during the presidential race of 2004. I was known to my college environmental law professor as a “bomb-throwing anarchist,” and like to credit myself with the total shaming of one of Flagstaff, Arizona’s mayoral candidates by calling his faux-rock tuchus out on not knowing the lyricist behind one of his so-called favorite songs, “All Along the Watchtower.” What does this prove? Maybe just that I’m a try-too-hard, too-eager, uncouth yippity pip who refuses to put her hand down and stop going “ooh ooh ooh pick me!” So yeah, I spose you could go with someone who knows more about Atlantan politics than that one time when y’all got burned down As Seen In That Movie With That Dreamy Clark Gable, but just remember what Mr. Thompson (he dead, man, he dead) said in “Better Than Sex” –
“The standard gets lower every year, but the scum keeps rising. A whole new class has seized control in the nineties: They call themselves ‘The New Dumb,’ and they have no sense of humor. They are smart, but they have no passion. They are cute, but they have no fun except phone sex and line dancing…. They are healthy and clean and cautious and their average life-span is now over 100 years (with women at 102 and men slightly under 100).”
For the love of all that’s holy and good and sparkling and spoon-danglin’ly wild-eyed, Mara, don’t let them hire one of those swine!!!
rumors of your death have apparently been greatly exaggerated, of which i am both relieved and dismayed. relieved because i can now remove my black veil, dismayed that, after all the tears i have shed, i may not be able to cry the next time you pass.
i read your piece on principle nelson of the adams school (excellent work! though you should have the web guy fix that fourth paragraph) and skimmed a few of the other fine offerings on ellsworthamerican.com. the duck article i found heartwarming, the photo of the grim reapers: chilling. it never occurred to me that there might be more than one reaper. i may have trouble sleeping.
you have certainly landed on a soft patch of land. now if you can find a handyman or short-order-cook with whom you could pal around and share playful and romantic banter, you will be like a living gilmore girl (yes, i realize that i have incriminated myself and that you are sure to judge the television that i may or may not have watched).
things are well here as well, since you asked. i have recently acquired an obsession with the game of go; the storms of april have given way to the mosquitos of may; i am wearing flip-flops; i am eating well; i am writing a social bookmarks application here at the big nerd ranch… in fact, i had better get back to it.
from southern sidelines and saving up for large quantities of roe, ian
This juniper, this soft orange dirt under my heels, these O’Keeffe clouds white muffins on the glass pan of the sky ants that carry their translucent pink and brown boulders
Will you ever understand the smell of the monsoons with me
With 100 feet of sky framed by trees above me how I miss the distant, blue mountains of the West And once returned to the West how quickly those mountains become background
If we look up Into the convex mirror of the sky Screened by the hay loft netting Will we see the whole world Left to us by dead men As though standing on dusty cars in barns Laughing to catch the sleeping bags as we throw them Was the way to secret divinity?
And if I jump From the sky Will I become virga Rain to steam And evaporate before I hit the ground, the buildings the heat upon the street the fountains and the birds and the beaches the sound of the wind in the trees and the flags the smell of sheets and milk and oranges and old brick?
hey there missy, so good to hear from you and hear you are doing well. things here are all the same. you’re not missing much, but we’re sure missing you.
biggest thing that happened lately was when we had to take sally the sow to the big city doctor and so decided to make it into a vacation as well. shoot… pineapples on pizza, people scooping poop off sidewalks, boys putting jewelry in their ears and girls putting it everywhere else… don’t get me wrong, them big buildings are impressive, but all the big buildings in the world won’t teach you nothing about birthing a pig.
what else? farm’s getting hot, gnats and noseeums are particularly bad this year. papa took the tractor down to creek, cleared the path and dug out the swimming hole. you remember that time you and me walked down there – we must’ve been four or five tops – and we were exploring and all of a sudden you started sinking down in that quicksand? haha. you were up to your thighs in it by the time i grabbed ahold of you. the sucking sound it made when we finally got you out and having to explain to mama how you lost your shoes… those were good times, missy.
uncle orbin – aunt alice’s orbin – he’s not doing so good, so say a little prayer for him. orbin was always real sweet to you. he was the one that bought you that little plastic horse that you loved so much – the one on the springs. what with marvette dying and so many of the folks around here getting sick, i’m starting to wonder if those chemicals we sprayed to keep the bugs off the peanuts and cotton weren’t so good after all.
but it’s real good to hear you are doing so good. you got out of here and made something for yourself. you always were the smart one.
well, it’s about time for me to start dinner. we’re having cornbread, black-eyed peas, mashed potatoes and fried chicken. i’ll save you some banana pudding.