the widower chugs Elijah’s wine / no sense letting it go to waste / it tastes like dirt from the cellar floor / like tree bark like the inside / of a woman’s mouth / Elijah lived a mysterious life / raised the dead / brought fire from the sky / foretold people’s fates / was taken up in a whirlwind / and reached the quiet stars
What is the American Character if not a fugitive sorrow, a sandbox justice, a stubborn keeping on. Kerouac urged "Try never get drunk outside yr own house.” The Everly Brothers did their “Crying in the Rain:”
"That’s your original figuring-out how complicated love is, actually, is your fucked up family, right?"
And God bless the worm baby who had pinworms / maybe three or four times that year. Medication. Doctors. More dirt. She was a needy worm baby.
My grandpa has a pillbox. It’s an old gun – six white bullets in the chambers. 8 AM: bam bam bam.
The girl who made her bed in Rilke's ear gives her predictions for 2014.
"You need to not be standing."