November 6, 2009

shine out in the wild kindness


Gibby Haynes, Revelation, unknown

Poems by Richard Brautigan:

To England

There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.


Information

Any thought that I have right now
isn’t worth a shit because I’m totally
fucked up.


It's Time to Train Yourself

It’s time to train yourself
to sleep alone again
and it’s so fucking hard.


Lint

I'm haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words.

I've been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened like lint.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Great blogger said...

When we get old we have the scraps or memories of our childhood and past to recollect on and bring a smile to our faces...

1:40 AM  

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