Well, now I’ve gone and done it.

Hey, Faulkner has books. Yeats has books. Why, even P.G. Wodehouse has books, some of which I suspect were written after his death. What have they got that I don’t have? (/stares forlornly into the abyss whilst contemplating said question)

sister implausible

You would not, as a rule, find her ilk in these parts; Indeed, frat boys from the state school from a few blocks off, Failing to heed the subtle changes inherent in the urban landscape, Will occasionally stumble into this where-they-don’t-want –to-be And, paying no heed to decorum or traffic regulations, Get to some anywhere-the-hell-else […]

get it, man, get it

He was holding court between sets at the Texas Bar (Not his usual stomping grounds, necessarily, But the owner was a decent guy whose checks were good, And a Wednesday night gig pretty much found money)

the stones

They are ornamented with coins, small colored stones, The occasional personal items– wrinkled and ancient baseball cards, Weathered photos of aunts or grandfathers, Talismans offered pharaoh-like, though for more ordinary passages, Humbler bestowals for lesser men, And the trees leave their own alms, The odd early dropping leaf, a clump of brown needles, Their own […]