Marshall Blevins
Dogs Barking
The corn grows faster than I do. Well, I guess it ought to or otherwise we wouldn’t have corn for years at a time. The trees grow faster than I do and stand up to fire better than I do and grow and grow and grow when already I’ll be in the ground. Lightning takes a few down and some days I smile about that and some days I just drive by without thinking about it.
Could you believe it's hard to tell if they were blackberries or raspberries? Could you believe it was hard to tell if it was love or hate? And when someone tells you they love you should you listen, always? And when someone tells you they hate you, isn’t it about time to leave? Should you listen, always?
I kept my senses, but put them on my shelf with traveling and old film. Does falling in love always mean going crazy? Does love mean caring or control? And how can someone write about such a perfect love without knowing it like an old friend?
The apartment was musty and I couldn’t help but feel like all of these folks could live a little happier somewhere else. Life is cheaper in Kentucky. Life is more expensive in Maryland, which is perhaps why we’re all so miserable. We have country all around us but sit inside all day. Who knows what is in the creeks where we live. There is trash in the corn fields and on the road and in the ditches. The houses are three stories tall but there’s only one bathroom and we kept our dogs on the second story porch for a yard.
They barked at bicyclists, they barked at me for two straight months and they bark at old friends and new family.
New family meant babies meant one new child born to an angry couple; he had tamed her like a circus elephant and the first born was the resulting zoo elephant who never knew wild and ran scared from thunderstorms and spoke his own language.
He quit drinking but he didn’t. He quit smoking but he didn’t. Doesn’t this mean you are unhappy unless I suppose those things make you happy.
Could you believe it's hard to tell if they were blackberries or raspberries? Could you believe it was hard to tell if it was love or hate? And when someone tells you they love you should you listen, always? And when someone tells you they hate you, isn’t it about time to leave? Should you listen, always?
I kept my senses, but put them on my shelf with traveling and old film. Does falling in love always mean going crazy? Does love mean caring or control? And how can someone write about such a perfect love without knowing it like an old friend?
The apartment was musty and I couldn’t help but feel like all of these folks could live a little happier somewhere else. Life is cheaper in Kentucky. Life is more expensive in Maryland, which is perhaps why we’re all so miserable. We have country all around us but sit inside all day. Who knows what is in the creeks where we live. There is trash in the corn fields and on the road and in the ditches. The houses are three stories tall but there’s only one bathroom and we kept our dogs on the second story porch for a yard.
They barked at bicyclists, they barked at me for two straight months and they bark at old friends and new family.
New family meant babies meant one new child born to an angry couple; he had tamed her like a circus elephant and the first born was the resulting zoo elephant who never knew wild and ran scared from thunderstorms and spoke his own language.
He quit drinking but he didn’t. He quit smoking but he didn’t. Doesn’t this mean you are unhappy unless I suppose those things make you happy.