its very late in the evening. theres a morning blue blotting out the black of night, and ive been listening to margot for the last 48 hours.. i feel like the melodies are rolling in the back of my skull when i close my eyes and try to sleep. i love this little ditty most of all.
david herbert
“those that go searching for love
only manifest their own lovelessness
and the loveless never find love
only the loving find love
and they never have to seek for it.”
gillian welch
“weary blues are everywhere i see
weary blues and they’re everywhere i see
weary blues honey everywhere i see
no ones ever had the blues like me”
ive been sleeping days and ive been up most nights, until blue brushes against the bottom of the sky and ices the hard-tipped lake. what do i do? i eat oranges and paint my nails. i get high and sit with the stars. and when I’m at my boise home i close the curtains, tuck my plants into their soil beds, turn on the tv, turn it off, pick up my guitar, put it down, get in the car and drive out past the houses of lawyers and doctors. past their charter schools. then the half empty subdivisions that keep spreading past the city, scooping out the wild and replacing it with khaki robots and shoelike sedans. last night when i got in my car the moon was fading into the dulling sky, but the sun didnt rise. not even when i passed lucky peak and got out at a little park behind the dam to watch water gush, like a God, from great cement spouts. i let the mist fall in my hair and smiled at the empty picnic tables, the entire emptiness of the park, still inky and black as if i towed the darkness with me. as if i had unzipped morning for the city and left night only for myself.
what i wrote on a piece of paper folded in an old book of poems.
“when i love him i feel like william wordsworth, and his crumpled pants on the bedroom floor are my daffodils..
..when hes good to me, he bites my hands that linger of soap, and says i taste like a woman.”
every week i go see an acupuncturist named george. yesterday he mapped an invisible line up from my belly button and stuck a solitary needle through the field of empty skin below my ribcage. it was like he pushed words out from some dark box and i heard? saw? a ribbon sentence curve behind my eyes. and it said that my heart was sad. ive been dragging myself into george’s office for two months now, always secretly hoping this time he won’t have to poke me all over with tiny little knives.. but getting speared is what I’ve come for, and when im laying there i rarely think about more than if he has ten of the same soft plaid shirts and loose brown corduroys. or if he can tell im high when he takes my pulse. so yesterday, after i swallowed down an enormous urge to cry he revealed the point on my chest as a meridian to my heart, and i resolved to be better to this sad heart of mine.
Anonymous asked: Imagine if suffering were real. Imagine if those old people were afraid of death. What if the midget or the girl with one arm really felt pain? Imagine how impossible it would be to live if some people were alone and afraid all their lives. - Jack Gilbert
true dat.
we’re moderate, we modernize, until our hell is a good life.
— emily haines.
