not worth reading, or,

ON THE SEPTEMBER NIGHT, THE START OF THE SONG—DARK—

oh, sprite, siren, get yerself out and get down, get out and get down, find yerself where yu can’t go any farther, or sing any more, and sometimes the strings you wrap around your waist and the coat you pull tight around your shoulders they keep you from breathing, they stop your breath from working, they make it all broken –

o she can’t hear me

NEAR THE OAK TREE BY THE HILL, ROCKS IN THE DIRT

I went out on the porch there, and I took my guitar and I took my drink, and I played and sang timidly, you could hear it for miles I’m sure, the ants and the crickets and cockroaches all listened, the dogs and the horses heard, they all looked at me with their shining eyes, the porch light above me was dull but the moon up there was full in the sky, it’s like the man said, ISIS AND THE MOON SHINE ON ME.