Justin Stone's creekbed

songs, prayers, poetry, stories, art, photographs, moving pictures, fondnesses, tall-tales and meditations

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Location: missouri, el paso

The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Run Like The Winded
(Heaven’s Mouth)


It was not only the light in the kitchen that made him look worn,
The aged television star in his early 30s,
Though it is fair to say it was an awful light
And it is fair to say I felt exactly as he looked.

Outside on the patio somebody is always falling into the pool.


the thar there
with beaks
and scuttle-things

in the sea-kitchen

yr brethren
blueblack alone

best not talk down
we’ve days alone and
rough clumsy-edges


“My silver’s gone,” he said. “I’m cavitied.”


This long night,—
one thousand dreams,
and one life,

You come to,—
a scampering away,

the barely breathing
the dare not make a move
sleeptide receding
and one thousand’s room


There was like a layer of sticky brown dirty sweat over our bodily proceedings and there was like wobbly long wide grins under outsized noses and googly eyes and our running joke was about being covered in a charlie sheen.

I said, “If you need me I’m going to be one thousand miles over here on the edge of the room with a charlie sheen.”

“Over here with my mary-kate and ashley ulcer.”

The last joke of the evening wasn’t even really a joke. It ended with a punch line about “our inexorable march into oblivion.”

When I went home and laid down I kept thinking about how my mom so often described things as being “too rich for my blood.”


he was out there
playing catch with his self
in the yard

he was out there
grappling with his self
in the yard

“Whatever happened to all the fist pumps?? The Summer of the Fist Pump???”


a little wet behind the leers

he had a pair of knockers on him


He shut doors quietly behind him as he went into and out of rooms and I knew him to be a decent man. We were a little older then. Thankful. As I stand here and look out across these faces I cannot help but be carried away. That was the love of my life. Oh Lord. I’m gone.


on cracks and related fissures
where day lights seep

a dream of entire heads of hair
clogging the shower’s drain—
remembered in shower, staring
at few hairs and drain


Turn light into sand and glass
And glass into light,—

A city of light and glass!
A city of looking!


All done up in claws, Bird Boy clacks into the kitchen and collapses. Them clicks in throat, them clatters in chest. Them flightless yearnings. From one thousand miles up it looked as though he lay atop a blanket of feathers fanned around him in a perfect circle. Around that radius the tops of heads turned down not-knowing what to do in this, and somebody falling away.


early early morning
the damp outside
the body bundled
en route with letters in hand
to post
destinations in mind
explanations made

a dream of resolution

we wish for more than letter


“His words don’t hold truck with me.”


That one-man show was the funniest, most heartbreaking thing I ever saw. The Day We All Caught Dysentery Down To The Waterpark. The funny, the truly funny. It was equal parts memoir, historical epic, dreamstate, and vision of the future. Dare I use the word holy? Religious, anyway. His journals contain allusions to a longer work called Shit The Whirlwind. He maintained that reality had become “a kind of propaganda B-movie.” The finest thing was the sound of him laughing.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Poise for the Late

Ride on out to Goon Flats, Doug,—
Marry the crickets.
When the others have long gone, long finished trivializing the night,
You will have just begun looking into it.