Callahac

Callahac

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welt

When my head bounced off the windshield I remembered nothing for a few moments, then I could not see from one eye, panicked, I felt around my chest and face hoping to find my displaced eyeball, to discover it was only a socket covered with blood and a gash cross the forehead, draining down. The iron taste of blood on my lips.

We've started just leaving them out on the street, in the recycling and they get scattered all over the concrete. There are too many of them, broken glass, broken men, people who need help just to stand up

"she is a little high strung" said grandpa, as he fetched the ladder to get the coffee pot from a mid-level branch of the oak tree.

news at eleven, we will have all the images fit to print, the dead babies, the patriotic song, the president's statement. all citizens peering deeply into the abyss simultaneously

freight trains, cargo, mountain chains and wide open prairies. There are people I love and people i'd rather not think of, fascists who labor under the same flag as me but would rather seem me lose than us win. I need less national and more countrymen.

marathon telephone conversations with Jess, reviewing the symptoms of my hypochondriac mother, reading Proust, the number eight on its side, napping. cars flowing by and by the works of Andy Goldsworthy

started to write then discovered i had not capitalized "started" backspace. omigod only thirty seconds left. omigod what am i going to write? this is just ridiculous. if i could only make a

silo

there is nothing there for a man but a shovel. you move closest to the pitch hole, trying to suck in good air, cherish every breeze, your sweat mixing with the corn, sometimes there is water

as related to courtesy, the first evolution of the relations between the sexes. Chivalry is not dead, but it really ought to be by now

writing since 2013 · 9 entries · 9 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means Nash showed up.

3longest streak

9days written

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on this day 13 years ago

Nash wrote about infinity
“marathon telephone conversations with Jess, reviewing the symptoms of my hypochondriac mother, reading Proust, the number eight on its side, napping. cars flowing by and by the works of Andy Goldswor…”

the words Nash reaches for

deadwriteomigodratherbrokenbloodrelatedcourtesyevolutionrelationssexeschivalryoughtnowshovelclosest