i remember packing the bags, my tired eyes ( Read more... )

for once i let you hold the reins ( Read more... )

now that i know what the world is ( Read more... )

I do not believe in a world, but in a shape of a world. I believe in lazy posts assembled to form a split-rail fence in my front yard, which, i believe, will remain there after i have died and the daises enbraid my chest cavity, bare like a little unfinished ark, buried in a cemetery plot far away from my home. If you're reading this and you haven' ( Read more... )

when writing about his idea of spontaneous prose, jack kerouac advised:

"Try never get drunk outside yr own house"

"Blow as deep as you want to blow"

"Visionary tics shivering in the chest"

"Accept loss forever"

"Believe in the holy contour of life"

"Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better ( Read more... )

to a motorist hung dead in a telephone polethe investigators buckled ( Read more... )

this song paints a picture of everything i've ever truly wanted of love ( Read more... )

nothing to write about
no arms to share
no darkness to stir in
no formal dresses to wear
with you i'd share a home
in a town full of bicycle bones
i only wanted
to be excited
i'm having trouble with this rhyme
because my stomach is hurting.

i'm going to do things to you that Freud never knew about ( Read more... )

when you sat in the cockpit of a little automobile ( Read more... )