Tuesday, June 29, 2010


He calls poetry an object. He calls her an object. Mary Anderson Franklin doesn't love Johnny Pinkerton because objects do not love like the way the sun only hits the water, the rusty boat beds, some ways some times and Johnny Pinkerton isn't his fuckin name anyway so fuck her anyway, 'cause Mary ain't her fuckin name anyway so who the hell were either of them to love or read poetry. Just two kids without names just two kids without nothin' but poetry they didn't deserve and not deserving it made them better just a minute or two even if it wasn't theirs and it wasn't their names it was saying and even if it said, who the fuck are you anyway, nobody, that's who. It was all about that sun, somewhere under the boat bed, somewhere stretched underneath. It had to do with the birds up there under the rusty bow smile cut the way their mouths couldn't turn, kissing the way they couldn't, slumber, dreaming, and that was all there was. That's why. Because, Wouldn't it be nice and soft if that's all there was.