We Don't Know How to Act, Tell Us.

Last night I drove up to my friends house at around midnight and the headlights of my car shined across the driveway illuminating a man with a white face sitting in the midst of total darkness. Missoula can be ok some times

Dan Bejar (Destroyer)

WATERCOLOURS INTO THE OCEAN

listening to strawberry wine
for the 131st time
it was 1987 and it was spring
it's 1987 all the time
now it's 1987 all the time
well we were there
too thin too fair
downing your third drink
standing at arm's length
in the square
just off a mildly successful
killing rampage
where good writers go
to find one thing
and stick with it

oh life
is bigger
than a life on the run
from the united states
and her friends
on this night
made of jewels

it took three
carabinieri
to peel em off the streets of the town
she's named after
dragging the lagoon was a disaster
they found him alive and
relatively well
well some situations
seek redressing
some songs just
go testing, testing,
i took a picture
i was sick of motion
and wore her watercolours into the ocean
and wore her watercolours into the ocean

First Week/Last Week....Carefree

I awoke this morning with a hangover. Last night I must have had 4 or 5 beers over four or five hours, which seems like moderation to me, yet this morning I awoke with a headache and a disgusting sensation brewing within me. I can remember the days of yore when a man like myself could drink 12 beers in a night, visit the precipice of oblivion, stumble home, and some how awake the next morning and have the energy to do any activity in mind, say, jumping-jacks. Nowadays it just isn't so. Maybe I don't allow myself to do that sort of rotten garbage any more, or maybe my body has had enough of that risky bizness, either way I can't tolerate it like a champion should.

Work in one hour, coffee in my hand, and a few good tunes playing to keep my spirit raised. Thank goodness it is saturday, the bakery dies this afternoon.

Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.