musicians in Maine build their guitars from trees they cut down and carve themselves, straight out of jail. trying to escape bone cage ribs and free suffering hearts, singing of the low down, drinking of the low down, laughing at how

this is your life now, take it and don’t be scared, whatever it makes your mind and body will be alright now, soul will last, dream monster will be okay, love maniac will be okay, melting into people’s eyes as body is taken to the ground day after day

except when it’s raining and no one can hold plants and work. sleep all day and dream intensely of the past and future, the here and now: Spokane, Hawaii, Maine, the spirit world and this. next day wake and wake and work and work, as if continually spitting into the ocean, and reliving poems that should be written down, about “how to protect the lilies,” and a woman who never gets sad, vomiting and helpless after one night at the bar, and the glimmering that must be the spirit, reassuring

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