“He isn’t very attractive, actually” (Jack Spicer, you mean)
and as we discuss the varying levels of attractiveness in poets of the mid 20th century I notice you google “Hot Poets”
And I laugh because it sounds like you’re asking google to find you a husband.
He let the book fall onto his face, sandwiching his cheeks between the pages, pressing his nose into the spine in an attempt to block out the ceiling lights. unfortunately, the book wasn’t that large, and a solitary light hovered just past the botom edge of the page that didnt quite rest on his right cheek. He lowered the book slowly, sliding it down his face, watching the glowing orb sink slowly behind the shadow of the pages. It reminded him of a sunset. an upwards sunset. He wondered, idly, (he was nothing if not idle) if it were possible to have an upwards sunset. He imagined the sun setting in the east. that would be weird. bac
It was one of those evenings, where the sky was a marbled yellow-tinged gray-blue, and the clouds spotted the distant horizon with leopard print puffs of shadow, and you could taste the salt from the ocean every time you licked your lips and feel the sand caught in the spaces beneath your toenails and the wind fluffed through the passageways between buildings cooling the air to a balmy 75-ish degrees farenheit. it was one of those evenings, and I was standing staring out into the subtle infinity of the clouds reaching to the horizon as I held a gun to Ricky J.’s head and listened to the sniveling pathetic noises that passed for his att
“He isn’t very attractive, actually” (Jack Spicer, you mean)
and as we discuss the varying levels of attractiveness in poets of the mid 20th century I notice you google “Hot Poets”
And I laugh because it sounds like you’re asking google to find you a husband.
He let the book fall onto his face, sandwiching his cheeks between the pages, pressing his nose into the spine in an attempt to block out the ceiling lights. unfortunately, the book wasn’t that large, and a solitary light hovered just past the botom edge of the page that didnt quite rest on his right cheek. He lowered the book slowly, sliding it down his face, watching the glowing orb sink slowly behind the shadow of the pages. It reminded him of a sunset. an upwards sunset. He wondered, idly, (he was nothing if not idle) if it were possible to have an upwards sunset. He imagined the sun setting in the east. that would be weird. bac
It was one of those evenings, where the sky was a marbled yellow-tinged gray-blue, and the clouds spotted the distant horizon with leopard print puffs of shadow, and you could taste the salt from the ocean every time you licked your lips and feel the sand caught in the spaces beneath your toenails and the wind fluffed through the passageways between buildings cooling the air to a balmy 75-ish degrees farenheit. it was one of those evenings, and I was standing staring out into the subtle infinity of the clouds reaching to the horizon as I held a gun to Ricky J.’s head and listened to the sniveling pathetic noises that passed for his att
the funny thing about
humans is that
we think we are
invincible and immortal
gods.
no—
we're all
roadkill,
living in
a tainted world
where cars drive
too damn fast.
and me,
well,
i just try to
get by without
being hit
more than once.