And it has been
of a year.
I have worn
under my sleeves,
on my thighs,
running down my cheeks.
This is what
looks like, my dear. ”
Michelle K., It Has Been One Hell of a Year.
In the country
We lay on trampolines
And wait for satellites
To drag their flashing lights above us
My brother waves his hand
As if someone can see him
I stared at the moon
Tried to read god’s mind
To find out what he meant
When he made our lips
The moon does not make a sound
It does not even smile
But I do
As if someone can see me
Typewriter Series #398 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Typewriter Series #224 by Tyler Knott Gregson
If you’re gonna write a song, put the name of a city in it. I mean, if it meant something real to you -a city - then please write that song. Let it be known that place exists because that song is sung. Marty Robbins sang about ‘El Paso’ and El Paso means something to me, but I’ve never been there. I know all about the trains leaving Cheyenne, and I did terrible in school, in geography, ya know? I’ve barely been outside of my own state, but i can name a song for every city that’s been written about. You keep going on and complaining how small America is, how every town is the same, has the same stores, same-looking movie theaters, the same burgers. But I think of every town or city that I can name a song for - I think of every song and America is immense.
And think of all the songs I haven’t discovered yet. And think of all the other countries out there that have their own songs with their little towns in them, towns that meant something to somebody in words I can’t decipher. Maybe melodies I can hum.”
John-Vincent Greco on What Is Country, What Is Folk?
Typewriter Series #286 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Unpublished and unpaid and praying not to run out of patience before I run out of time. Or words. Nightmares of empty throats. Fathers who are in your ear with practical doubts, friends who put you on with no true belief, loved ones with money wondering why you don’t have any, wondering when you’ll grow up and take a real job, worrying would you rather not be with them — running out of words, out of patience. On days when there is no luxury in your life, as in no cushion anywhere between your dreams and your delusions, and everything — even time and love — is skinning itself like raw knees as you edge past. ”
excerpt from “The Tunnel of Stolen Throats,” from John Vincent Greco (Rich Baiocco)’s zine Death in a Rifle Garden35
Typewriter Series #229 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover. ”
Falsely yours, Charles Bukowski5449