Justin Stone's creekbed

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

My Photo
Location: missouri, el paso

The Anterior Insula and Hwy W

Monday, June 22, 2009

Our Heart

You could say he was pressing, chasing,
Falling behind, not seeing pitches.
That he’d lost it.
You could say a lot of things,
And people did, because people are always saying things.
But a saying said a thousand times means nothing.
Ol’ Jimmy “Three Hands” Swinger,
He of the most unfortunate name.
“Rally killer” they called him.
“The piss in the peanuts.”
“The ball park dog.”
Deep-seated cringe..
The one game he hit into three triple plays.
Three triple plays. One game.
And the season on the line.
(The season then was always on the line.)
I mean, that’s history,
But who wants to be on that side of history?
There then a great caterwaul
“You wait your whole life for this.”
(flashes and more)
“I think I’m....”
“Where were we?”
(red-rimmed and honest)
(too so)
“The fans,” he trailed off,
“They got a point.”
(one thousand years under water)
Know you the lusty boos?
The contempt of a city?
“I can hear it when I sleep.”
(the eyes are wet)
“I should probably have been a fisherman.”
“Not too late,” the pundit quipped.

Be not afraid

(the sound of cars passing in the rain)

He was always walking off the field,
We see him from behind—
Arms at his side,
Head down,
In stride.
How, no one is to know—
He is and was
Walking off the field—

Song Of Three Hands
Song Of Swinger

“In my mind I’m flying out of the ballpark
And the angels are on their feet.
Silence gives way to something special...
( )
Our old heart redeeming...

When you’re a child
You’re a child
You never have to forget anything
Three hands, red and blue and green
Coming round the corner home
A sea of you, waterlife, clean
Coming round the corner home
Three hands sure and sure and seen

we are wet with love

home home home

flying from field
and home

to the sunlight with fish

I had a dream you were dreaming...

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Nothing Now Between The Earth And You

you never planned a comb-over...
it just kinda happened—
you comb over


the memory of you then,
the sounds that came out of your mouth
under the too-bright lights of the football field
on graduation night,

Our Sorry Captain,
set sail Exile






sense of escalating mistake


seen across space—

at first you don’t know you can’t move,
can’t breathe


you start to move


this bathroom, this morning
it ain’t far away...
it’s right here:

a wide, flat land-scape:
the few trees pushed over,
and you long on top of it:
the earth your head
clay you can push and move around with your fingers,
thinking and kneading

you so like to touch the empty spots

Sunday, June 07, 2009

Ah, mom, I’m still here. Are you still reading? I imagine you are. The creekbed’s quiet again. Little minnow song, little crawdad dance. I’ve been writing in other places, other books, writing on the air. Know I’m writing. Searching for one true sentence. Well. Paint. Fashioning petroglyphs and pictographs. Finally getting to that screenplay about people running. We’re cracking ourselves up, know that. My smile an Ozark faultline. The Mississippi run backward. The Missouri. We long to see, know. Hidden cave. Topography. Throwing a vintage curveball, buckling batters’ knees. Know that. A city of light and glass. Mindful. Outstretched. Faces in cliffs, faces in the timber. We are slowly, steadily discerning. We are slowly, steadily. Deep earth springs. Various reels, spins, ballads. Carefully notated collections. Brown. Green. Blue. Maroon and tan. Building mounds. The panther, buffalo, bear, beaver. The otter, hawk, eagle. Even the spider. We had lightning in our hand out in the desert. I received the dreamcatchers. Thank you. The Little Ones. The morning light remembers everything. The song sings itself. The one thousand things. The one thousand glints. I will meet you out there. I am going long. I love

A peak into some of my dreams:

Midwestern Myth & the Acolytes

A fine and lovely book of photography and poetry by my good friend Arianna Willow Parsons.

Go, look!