As in Francis

Zelda, too.

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I wish I wouldn’t have days where everything seems great for reasons so abstract that I can’t understand them, yet know those days are limited, and know they represent a sort of microphase, and then wake up one morning to find that those days have inexplicably passed and that I am now, confusingly (even though I had recognized I was in a ‘phase’) in the days where everything seems against me and existentially fucked, for reasons so abstract that I can’t understand them, yet know those days are limited and know they represent a sort of microphase, and then wake up one morning to find that those days have inexplicably passed [etc.].

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tyleroakley:

North Carolina Pastor preaches the word of God by insisting that all gays and lesbians should be kept in an electrical fence so that they’ll just die out in a couple years.

“Fly over and drop some food”

(Source: thedailywhat)

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Read It And Weep

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburg

BY RICHARD HUGO

You might come here Sunday on a whim.   
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss   
you had was years ago. You walk these streets   
laid out by the insane, past hotels   
that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try   
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.   
Only churches are kept up. The jail   
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner   
is always in, not knowing what he’s done.

The principal supporting business now   
is rage. Hatred of the various grays   
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,   
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls   
who leave each year for Butte. One good   
restaurant and bars can’t wipe the boredom out.   
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,   
a dance floor built on springs—
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat   
or two stacks high above the town,   
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse   
for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.

Isn’t this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn’t this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?   
Don’t empty houses ring? Are magnesium   
and scorn sufficient to support a town,   
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze   
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty   
when the jail was built, still laughs   
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,   
he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.   
You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself.   
The car that brought you here still runs.   
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it’s mined, is silver   
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

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I end every sentence with, “But it’s fine. It’s amicable. It’s no one’s fault. Everybody’s friends.” She jokes that I’ve said it so much it’s going to be the title of my autobiography. “Everybody’s Friends And Other Tales of Self-Hatred And Denial.”