Those I acknowledge love tempered with those I already loved

I cannot believe how many people that I love now, whom thought I merely liked. Of course there are those whom I knew I loved well before my chest filled up, aspirating love all over the fucking place. Those, of course, are my children, Patrick Kent, Sylvia, Jason, the family who used to live in Hogg Lot, the tattooo of Marilyn Monrow wearing a covid mask on her left upper arm, the sweat beads, the unattractive feet, Ida, Dr. Perry, Becca, Cheryl Posey who died, Amy who saw the UFO with me, Dr. Thompson, Dr. Kinser, Ethel, Denver, Holly, Ben, Ron Chestnut, Esq.,Emma, Lisa N., Star, Angela who moved to Newport, Lacey, Sara Cole, Jenny D., Sharlene, Steve C., Priscilla, Billy Jack Hurd, Christine D., Richard DuBois, Jennifer whom I loved alot, Jan, Harold, Bobby Combs, Brenda, Danielle, Curtis C., LaDonna, Kevin Bridgett and Alma, Bridget lovely and terrified of life, Tonya God Dammit, Bruce and Gloria, Danny, [Rich Black Coffee, The Law], Amy B., Tara to a lesser degree, Bob Vetter who loved me too but would have suffered waterboarding in lieu of ever admitting it, Pam Anderson who broke the fuck out of my younger heart, Neil Guffey, Raymond Stakley, Pam, Connie T., Kimberly M., Cecil, Dale Fox, Doug G., certain clients, Mouse Wolfenbarger, Kathy, Walt, Tom and Tim, Michelle, Betty, Jim, Rick, Shannon, David and Darlene, Phyllis and Zonnie, Cindy, Nani who did not even like me, bart and edna, Blackie, Oliver, Blackie, Gimpy to squirrel, My beloved Paul and Anna Mae, Lisa, Lionel R. Barret, Jr., Esq., Robin Smotherman, Aunt Betty, Uncle Ralph, Uncle Billy, that waitress with the brown bob in Chicago, Professor Harper, Wes B., the two cashiers at Sunoco, Hugo, Sara and Maria, Danny Boruff, Linda, Linda, Deitra, Janae, John, Maddie, Laura M., Penny and Whitney and Little Bit, Jodi E., Rebekkah, Courtney, Dylan, Austine, Everly, her sister, Coraline, Kim C., Bobby, Steve, [I pause to draw my own attention to the fact that my ability to identify these people has sharpened dramatically thank to you-know-who, whom I love . . . . Now I've found that I love people like David Marshall, Tara P., Mitch, Noah B., Noah H., Ralph, Johnny Sexton, Cole, Jawnne, Tammy who died, and Larry B a little bit.

Massive Attack - Paradise Circus

Crystal

This is all yours, Crystal Jones, from Paul Whetstone, who loves you a thousand times more than God Almighty and all her angels. I am indeed forever transfixed, what the inmates used to call a natural life sentence. I am overwhelmed with you. I told you that you can never say you weren't loved completely by a man who would have probably married you in your Church, your dress a pretty pale beige with matching satin shoes to be worn only once, but simple, still not knowing anything at all about your mysterious, taciturn and aloof way. I will love you always, Miss Jones. But, the fact that I can endure this powerful musical session while absorbing your haunting visage means I've begun drifting away from you, honey. I'm so sorry. I've never experienced anything like this in my life. Should the poets take note, it was to doomed fail, almost Shakesperian, but the resulting implosion inside of me will have to stand for something totally worthwhile and beautifully good. I just don't know what form that will take. I just cannot believe this has happened to me. A former friend of mine once beat me almost to death, but this is the most powerful force I've ever encountered bearing in mind that I have also suffered a broken neck, serial expulsions, jail, drugs of every kind, alcohol, and an overdose, and the darkest depression imaginable. The night of the dark soul, they say. I tried to die myself out it and, true to nature, fucked even that up. My chest fills now full with you, honey. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." Remember when you said that? Where will all this go, I wonder. I can feel you inside of my body at times, like right now. You have violenty shaken my little internal snow globe. See, you reached down into the briar thickets of your own damage and bloodied your strong hands to summon a mouth kiss, just for me. The most memorable of all. I'm hit! Struck by lightning. In italian, the thunderbolt. In song, What We See, by the Grandbrothers, the Revolutionary Road soundtrack by Thomas Newman, Yann Tierson, haunting tales told only by the instrumentals, the intra-facial tear pushers, the back of your legs behind your knees walking down the isle, trying on new boots I bought for you, At first I thanked God Almighty that I was having trouble remembering your lovely face, but I can recall perfectly again. I'm looking at the image, it scoops something out of my solar plexus and feeds it back to me, I saw the tiny sweat beads on your shoulder and thought I licked them off, and your hair pulled up on your head, and your silent company, Now left with the spell you cast on me, how I so hope that the bailiff won't be able to tell at the sounding of the of the criminal couurt docket. Allergies I'll say. All the sudden I find myself I'm mourning the day that I might not love you anymore. My limenence, my limping ego, my pity for the circumstantial periphery of your life and times, your house burning down. My God. I suppose that letter I planned to write to you one day after I proved that I can't come back to this is writing itself this morning. "Paul, honey, you're not really in love with me." I'm satisfied that you've since learned different. That weird vestibule one enters when Thomas Newman plays his music. My choppy breath breathing in and out. In yiddish it's called getting verklempt or choked up that the voice cracks. Sometimes seems like all the time while spending time with my lovely girl in my mind, I get piss at what caused you pain, once managed by you with the help of copius introductions of hard narcotics, no doubt, is now my pain now. The mystery of why you made sure I knew. In the first few minutes. Maybe you didn't even mean to share it over lunch, but that tells me that it's never far behind your eyes. But, maybe you did. While I absorbed the entirety of your history, I shared my french toast with you, and you shared the unimaginable pain of lost children with me. I did not share mine with you. I have failed. This makes me howl like wounded heartbroken animal at six a.m. You'd be happy that my heartbreak did not trigger my depression. I think that you might care enough about me to be happy about that, Crystal. I don't even know your middle name. Truth is I lied about the reason I wouldn't represent you, honey. I am very embarrased, but when your mother called, I did not know your name despite the fact that my blood has slowed seeing you from time to time. This was bound to happen and I'm not afraid that it did. And you called me honey that time. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." I used the word "dry, which got your attention." Something dry about you. It just popped out of my oftentimes unbridled mouth. But, I meant, I think, that I detected that you were once full and now not. Is it time to write the letter. Probably not. Not yet. When will it be "yet," Not yet. Writing this is the most wayward thing I can do at this moment. In truth, it writes itself. My barber gave me a LGTBQ bracelet because I support the people who live in the margins of this stupid place, where you, too, have lived your life. In the margins, where I work the law. People know that about me. Playing the soundtrack for Amelie keeps you close to me, Crystal Jones. I'll never shake you, honey. Don't want to. I've learned that the kind of sadness you evoke. It's like some kind of weird narcotic that is totally good for the newly addicted. "in language strange I said, I love thee true." You are star-shaped, honey. The way I describe this to myself and close friends is simple: I'm fucked, but not totally anymore. Only exhausted, Crystal. I'm so fucking tough, though, that I will demand of God Almighty all the wisdom from this bizarre experience that can be got.

Emma Ruth Rundle - Oh Sarah

I Know Why the Thicket Tapers

I know because I know the Sun.

The Human Foot

I know of no other tightly-arranged organic composite on planet Earth that is so utterly beautiful and utilitarian. A perfect blend of the arts and science, courtesy of the Universe.

A Bit of Joy in the Warehouse

This is my green driveway. Beneath the grass is a thick layer of crusher run gravel. I can mow over it like the gravel is not there. The point is you can't get stuck and the earth really appreciates that it can still breathe. Green Driveways - Let's Get Started.

I Get It, Vergel. I really do.