It was a lonely life in the lists. Sometimes he thought of the rust He could be acquiring aging In the weeds behind some barn. Sometimes he thought a new coat Of paint might be just the thing.
In old photos, you are grainy As the chicken shed wood, Groovy in the rotting way, Alive to what will be, And not decay or was, Not the illuminated past, But next and next and next. –Shaun Perkins
Next to the future home of the Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry is a oak tree that is over 100-years-old. In it is a treehouse that is 40-years-old.
“Buckshot guesswork,” he said, as pulsar dust fell on hay bales and he chewed on his cigarillo. He took the beat up guitar, the one his daddy played, from the corner and broke into a Hank Williams number. Another followed – strange, Almost malevolent…
Nestled mid twinkling Lights, artificial nature Captures her beauty. –Kelly Palmer