tiny ghost hands
I don’t know why it took me so long to read Sasha Fletcher’s poems but dang I’ve got some catching up to do.
People who read People!
My smushy-mouth is floating in it under the book pick of the week!
Damn, remember when Courtney was “just” a Buffalo Prize Winner in Hobart 14?!?Courtney Maum
When the mortar exploded in the sky and the bottle rockets whizzed all around us, I stared and watched, smiling. We’d all dressed up in our tuxes for the wedding the next day, because we had them and because it seemed funny and official and how many times in our lives did we get to wear tuxes together? The whole thing looked and felt like the best celebration I could have imagined.
—“Fire in the Sky” (from BACKSWING)
i made this last year but don’t think i ever uploaded it. gonna try to make some more this weekend
just a little reminder that I’m doing most of my tumbling (reblogging buffalo & antlers & wagoneers & the like, and also almost endlessly and obnoxiously about my book (available now!)) over at my personal tumblr, w/ this one mostly (but hopefully not too boringly?) devoted to Hobart-centric reblogs & stuff.
"We walked beside the tracks and our feet sent up clouds of black dust at every step."
(“The Body” by King, "Stand by me" by Reiner 1986)
(via wilwheaton)river and the trees
Thirty one seemed so old when I was twenty,
sneaking into Max’s Tavern where you knew
all the bartenders and we nightly got shitty
on whatever beer was cheapest. Back when
your need seemed romantic and I thought
your calluses might mean something
beyond history- the seventh-place 500-meter
hurdler in the nation for high-schoolers,
a junior Olympian. I saw you leap all the way
over the hood of some Honda in the parking lot
once on a bet. I saw you drink more whiskey than anyone
would ever believe and do a backflip off the second
story balcony to fuck up your left foot royally.
You were limping for weeks, lost the fifth job you’d had
since I met you- security guard, baker, aquarium salesman
Volkswagen mechanic, fishmonger (you were in love
with every one of them)- and still you wouldn’t see
a doctor. My chest tightens now to look at you
in the picture at the river, your long man’s body tensed,
t-shirt rippling, your tribal-tattooed ankle, even then,
dated. The stone you were skipping had not yet left
your hand. I remember the smell of your Wolverine
muttonchops, the taste of your inner elbow
and Seagram’s 7, the hot, wet violence of your hands
in my hair. And then I remember you dragging me
out of our room at The Palms Motel by the fistful of it,
after I’d dumped a gram of your coke in the carpet
followed by my glass of whiskey and still wouldn’t leave.
Old men with leather faces in bent fedoras just sat
smoking in the parking lot with neutral expressions
under the half-burnt-out neon. I was not the first girl
to scream here. I crossed the dark tarmac towards the light
of a McDonald’s, bought you a McRib sandwich
and left it on the doorstep because you would not let me in.
There’s actually no such thing as an adult. That word is a placeholder. We never grow up. We’re not supposed to. We’re born and that’s it. We get bigger. We live through great storms. We get soaked to the bone. We realize we’re waterproof. We strive for calm.
holy wow, that’s a lot of notes!tiny ghost hands