Gary Nunan - Metal

Sweeping Promises - Hunger for a Way Out

TTSSFU- IHope You Die

Plateau - Meat Puppets

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 girl with 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

My Lopsided Epic Love Story: Me and Ms. Jones

This is all yours, Crystal Jones, from me, Paul Whetstone, who loves you a thousand times more than God Almighty and all the angels. I am indeed forever transfixed, what the inmates used to call a "natural life sentence." I am overwhelmed. I told you in the car 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 still not knowing anything at all about your mysterious inner-works, your taciturn and aloof way of carrying yourself, yet well knowing the sadness, probably fuelled by unimaginable pain and the escapist antics that preceded me. I will love you always, Miss Jones. But, the fact that I can endure this sadddening music, provided below, while absorbing your haunting visage, could mean I've begun drifting away from you, honey. And if this turns out true, I would be so very sorry honey. I've never experienced anything like this in my life, Crystal. You need to know this because it is overwhelmingly true. Should the poets take note, which they will, it was doomed fail before it even began, almost Shakesperian, but the resulting implosion inside of me will have to stand for something totally worthwhile and beautifully good. This is inherent in a love so bold. 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 half 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, intense violence, an overdose, and the darkest depression imaginable. It's referred to as the dark nightof the soul. 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 emotional 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. My God. The most memorable thing of all. I'm hit! Struck by lightning. In italian, the thunderbolt. In song, Thomas Newman, Yann Tierson, haunting tales told only by the instrumentals tapped out on big pianos, Gregory Isakov, Neil Young, Hope Sandoval, all the intra-facial tear pushers, and even my recollection of 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, the little mole below your strong chin, your leg tattoo, your indifference. But I can recall these perfectly again since finding the couragee to look, and to remember the brief time, and I'm now looking at the image, you look sad and that's what kills me, baby, it scoops something out of my solar plexus and feeds it back to me again and again. I saw the tiny sweat beads on your shoulder in your house in the heat and thought I licked them off and hope I did, and your hair pulled up on your head, Marilyn Monroe, and your silent company, Now left with a loss of the sound of your voice along with the spell that your spirit cast on me, Before the morning docket, having mourned again, how I so hope that the bailiff won't be able to tell. Allergies I'll say. And all a sudden I find myself I'm mourning the day that I might not love you anymore. But I will never hear your voice again because I will make sure of it. My limenence, my limping ego, my pity for the circumstantial periphery of your life like when your your house burned down, goes right along with the rest. My God. I suppose that this is the letter I planned to write to you one day. I probably should not keep coming back to this blog entry every morning, but it could help me in my recovery from this tectonic change in my life. "Paul, honey, you're not really in love with me." I'm satisfied that you've since gathered different. That weird vestibule one enters when Thomas Newman plays his music stays with us. My choppy breath affecting my voice when breathing in and out. In yiddish it's called getting verklempt or choked up that the voice cracks, so you can't talk. It sometimes seems like all the time, while spending time with my lovely girl in my mind and try to talk, I have to wait. And I get pissed at what caused your pain. Once tempered with the help of copius introductions of hard narcotics into your body, no doubt. But this is now my pain, too, adding to my own and tempered, too, with prescription medication at times, times two at a time. The dark mystery at our table too, where you made sure I knew. You were testing the waters, looking for my reaction with your hazel eyes. All among 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 those hazel eyes of yours. While I absorbed the entirety of your lovely, sculpted face, your strong hands, your hair, your body. I shared my french toast with you, and you shared the unimaginable pain of lost children. I did not share my own with you. After which I would howled like a wounded and heartbroken animal at two a.m. I think that you'd be happy that my heartbreak did not trigger my longstanding and underlying 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. That, you said, made you "salty" about me. 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 over the years. I thought that the call was one of hundreds. Had I known it was you, my God, I would have drawn upon everything I know about the law in order to help you, honey. I can't forget that you called me honey that time. "Paul, honey, you're not in love with me." En route to Rural King I used the word "dry," to describe you in the car, which got your attention. There's something dry about you, Crystal. You fed it back to me: "Dry?" It just popped out of my unbridled mouth from my heart that never lies. But, I meant, I think, that I detected that you were once full and now almost running on empty. I played Objects by Big Thief on the stereo. 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 within the margins of this stupid place called America, where you, too, have lived your less than ideal life, to put it light, within those same margins, where I work the law as best I can. I so wish I had helped you. Your mother, by the way, told you that I was a good man. I truly hope I am. The music of Gregory Alan Isakov keeps you close to me, Crystal Jones. I'll never shake you from my invisible inner core, honey. I don't care to. I've learned that the kind of sadness you evoke is really all I have of you. I want to help you, but I can't. I won't. It would send me back up into orbit and very dangerously back down. This letter seems to write itself. According to John Keats, the lonely knight of arms fell asleep beneath a tree and dreamed of the kind of love I at first so wanted with you. After they made love and "she made sweet moan, she said "sure in language strange," I love you, too. You are star-shaped, baby. The way I describe how this has affected me to my concerned close friends is simple: Perhaps I'm only exhausted from a massive love beyond measure, which I never knew existed. Now, maybe you can say within one of your dreams, "Paul, maybe you really do love me true." Indeed I do, Ms. Jones. I will love you even after I draw my final breath. Still, who gets this kind of thing dropped in his 65 year old lap. What the fuck.

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.