just another tramp of hearts crying tears of faithlessness
Riding Westward
Any sunset, look at him: standing there,
like between his legs there's a horse
somehow, on either side of it a saddlebag
of loss, a pack of sorrow, and him Kid
Compromise his very own shoot-'em-up
tilt to the brim of his hat self, smirk to match,
all-for-love-if-it's-gotta-come-to-that half
swagger,
half unintentional, I think, sashay.
The silver spurs at his ankles where maybe
the wings would be, if the gods still existed,
catch the light, lose it, as he stands in place,
scraping the dirt with his boots: lines, circles
that stop short, shapes that mean nothing -
no bull, not like that, but scraping shyly, like
a man who's forgotten that part of himself,
keeps forgetting, because what the fuck?
As he takes his hat off; as he lifts his head
like if right now he could be any animal he'd
choose coyote; as all the usual sunset colors
break over his face,
he starts up singing again,
same as every night, same song: loneliness
by starlight, miles to go, lay me down by
the cool, etc. - that kind of song, the kind
you'll have heard before, sure, somewhere,
but where was that,
the singer turning this
and that way, as if watching the song itself
- the words to the song - leave him, as he
lets each go, the wind carrying most of it,
some of the words, falling, settling into
instead that larger darkness, where the smaller
darknesses that our lives were lie softly down.
~Carl Phillips
***
I really like this poem a lot. For obvious reasons.
Speaking of obvious, man, I was listening to "Backstreets" yesterday on repeat on my very wet, very long morning commute, and trying to figure out how to write the Sam-and-Dean story that belongs to it. I mean, seriously. trying in vain to breathe the fire we was born in and trying to learn how to walk like the heroes we thought we had to be, not to mention, when the breakdown hit at midnight / there was nothing left to say / but I hated him / and I hated you when you went away.
I will figure this out eventually.
***
99 people have posted their remixes! 99! That's nearly a third! And the deadline's not until tomorrow. I am kind of pleased. And also terrified. Because what if the other 220 all bail? Um. Yes, these are the kinds of things I think about, when I am not staring at the two pinch hits that are mocking me by being good ideas in my head and yet absolutely impossible to get down on paper.
I will probably be useless for the next week, until the archive opens. I apologize in advance.
If you are not going to have your story posted by 11:59 pm EDT tomorrow night, you might want to let me know ASAP via email. I do not want to be having these discussions in public in my comments. Also know that I cannot access gmail at work, so if you need me quickly, use remix [at] illuminatedtext [dot] com.
As people start dropping out, I will be scrambling for pinch hitters, so be alert for that, as well.
*battens down the hatches*
***
Any sunset, look at him: standing there,
like between his legs there's a horse
somehow, on either side of it a saddlebag
of loss, a pack of sorrow, and him Kid
Compromise his very own shoot-'em-up
tilt to the brim of his hat self, smirk to match,
all-for-love-if-it's-gotta-come-to-that half
swagger,
half unintentional, I think, sashay.
The silver spurs at his ankles where maybe
the wings would be, if the gods still existed,
catch the light, lose it, as he stands in place,
scraping the dirt with his boots: lines, circles
that stop short, shapes that mean nothing -
no bull, not like that, but scraping shyly, like
a man who's forgotten that part of himself,
keeps forgetting, because what the fuck?
As he takes his hat off; as he lifts his head
like if right now he could be any animal he'd
choose coyote; as all the usual sunset colors
break over his face,
he starts up singing again,
same as every night, same song: loneliness
by starlight, miles to go, lay me down by
the cool, etc. - that kind of song, the kind
you'll have heard before, sure, somewhere,
but where was that,
the singer turning this
and that way, as if watching the song itself
- the words to the song - leave him, as he
lets each go, the wind carrying most of it,
some of the words, falling, settling into
instead that larger darkness, where the smaller
darknesses that our lives were lie softly down.
~Carl Phillips
***
I really like this poem a lot. For obvious reasons.
Speaking of obvious, man, I was listening to "Backstreets" yesterday on repeat on my very wet, very long morning commute, and trying to figure out how to write the Sam-and-Dean story that belongs to it. I mean, seriously. trying in vain to breathe the fire we was born in and trying to learn how to walk like the heroes we thought we had to be, not to mention, when the breakdown hit at midnight / there was nothing left to say / but I hated him / and I hated you when you went away.
I will figure this out eventually.
***
99 people have posted their remixes! 99! That's nearly a third! And the deadline's not until tomorrow. I am kind of pleased. And also terrified. Because what if the other 220 all bail? Um. Yes, these are the kinds of things I think about, when I am not staring at the two pinch hits that are mocking me by being good ideas in my head and yet absolutely impossible to get down on paper.
I will probably be useless for the next week, until the archive opens. I apologize in advance.
If you are not going to have your story posted by 11:59 pm EDT tomorrow night, you might want to let me know ASAP via email. I do not want to be having these discussions in public in my comments. Also know that I cannot access gmail at work, so if you need me quickly, use remix [at] illuminatedtext [dot] com.
As people start dropping out, I will be scrambling for pinch hitters, so be alert for that, as well.
*battens down the hatches*
***