it's a place i can't get to.
neat.
i discovered something startling yet somehow also mundane last night. in blue light and a cramped room. it was important, but i'm not ready to voice it externally yet.
many have come, but i like you the best.</a> this guy's site is still good if you need cheering up web-style.
yesterday afternoon i made the mistake of strolling into caliban half an hour before closing time, with a wallet. oops. they had interior with sudden joy for two bucks :) as well as a slim copy of that calvino i've been meaning to read. also picked up the chabon title that was missing from my library... why do i forget sometimes about my ban on book shops? oh well. i'm pleased. i'd read the highly-hyped shaughnessy book last summer. upon that first read: it was better than a lot of contemporary poetry i read these days... good, but not transcendant. it had that taste to it that is so common in a lot of younger throughthepomowringer published poets' work. i can't explain it, just. it usually includes geometric terms and voyeurism and barbs at the modern daily way of life. you know. i think sex toys might have been involved. which is fine, that's not the problem you may anticipate, but. do you know what i'm struggling to explain here? it's always either so much (and ONLY, alone) russet-colored wheat field nature, birch trees and youths in fields, and cows, being 50 plus and having a slow-and-"wise" tone to everything--i mean, ruminating creakedcrookedly about apples and snow but that's as far as it goes, and yes i know metaphor but--aaaaugh--or it's the metro and lookseeicansignalthatitookarthistory101a
oh well. maybe i'll glean something special this time around.
meanwhile, justin dreams about road trips involving the desert, the mountains, maybe the midwest, maybe the southwest. maybe tracking long strands of field and wistful true blue sky. i think about the awkwardness of sunglasses and the littlekid comfort of bythehighway ice cream stands.
i discovered something startling yet somehow also mundane last night. in blue light and a cramped room. it was important, but i'm not ready to voice it externally yet.
many have come, but i like you the best.</a> this guy's site is still good if you need cheering up web-style.
yesterday afternoon i made the mistake of strolling into caliban half an hour before closing time, with a wallet. oops. they had interior with sudden joy for two bucks :) as well as a slim copy of that calvino i've been meaning to read. also picked up the chabon title that was missing from my library... why do i forget sometimes about my ban on book shops? oh well. i'm pleased. i'd read the highly-hyped shaughnessy book last summer. upon that first read: it was better than a lot of contemporary poetry i read these days... good, but not transcendant. it had that taste to it that is so common in a lot of younger throughthepomowringer published poets' work. i can't explain it, just. it usually includes geometric terms and voyeurism and barbs at the modern daily way of life. you know. i think sex toys might have been involved. which is fine, that's not the problem you may anticipate, but. do you know what i'm struggling to explain here? it's always either so much (and ONLY, alone) russet-colored wheat field nature, birch trees and youths in fields, and cows, being 50 plus and having a slow-and-"wise" tone to everything--i mean, ruminating creakedcrookedly about apples and snow but that's as far as it goes, and yes i know metaphor but--aaaaugh--or it's the metro and lookseeicansignalthatitookarthistory101a
oh well. maybe i'll glean something special this time around.
meanwhile, justin dreams about road trips involving the desert, the mountains, maybe the midwest, maybe the southwest. maybe tracking long strands of field and wistful true blue sky. i think about the awkwardness of sunglasses and the littlekid comfort of bythehighway ice cream stands.