Whiskey and Air Conditioning

• 2012-06-26

  prayers-for-drunkards:

  So much happy!

  “Daisy”

  Fang Island

  Fang Island

  Reblogging myself because I need more happy!

  Source: prayers-for-drunkards

• 2012-05-04

  “With Hands Like Hunter S. Thompson” by Rhett Archelis

  God’s tears don’t fall on the Highlands.

  They wash down                    from the Ohio

  with barges                                and coal

  and ropes of smoke                      pulling taut

  from Heaven.

  i look straight down                        from Zorn Avenue;

  i dream about workers

  workers with                                       black, calloused bodies

  and cloudy,                                              reddened eyes.

  i see them

  at the mouth of the river

  wheezing before children,

  dying before Jesus,

  and swimming across my daydreams

  in a dense,            grey                        sky.

  i turned my back

  and i thought of men,

  women,

  and drugs

  gyrating across my city.

  They’re taking five                          

  out in Ivanhoe Alley.

  They’re taking                                        

  little, chemical pressure points

  across from St. James

  across                                     from their parents

  across                                         from red skin, and

  swollen, suede-colored eyes.

  They’re breaking colors in half

  and breaking bottles in stairwells.

  Boys jump forth,

  women lie back,

  men wear tattoos                                        to hide,

  and little girls cry with their mothers.

  The breeze pours upon me like whiskey.

  i almost fell

  like Lucifer                              and God knows what i’ve seen.

  Young, wrinkled warriors

  selling boomers on Baxter Avenue

                                                                 ready to lash out

  and breathe waste                                 into the lungs of Old Louisville.

  They toss screams and bullets into the winds

  like they once flew kites at Seneca.

  When their forefathers woke at night

  with sweat upon their white hands                 that took decades to wash

  hands that cover their lips                                     when they hack

  and squeal

  from their days in the Appalachian rocks.

  Their teeth                                      shifted                             and cracked

  from that old medicine:

  general store liquor

  and dipped tobacco.

  His ears are weak

  from                       cave echo

  and                               rock dust.

  His hands are stained

  with iodine.

  That dark red

  like spilled blood               in molasses.

  It comes flowin’ down the river.

• 2012-04-20

  The theme of the day is “camaraderie.”

  Give ‘em hell with those you love at your side.

• 2012-04-11

  Lying in bed all day isn’t worth it, but any bit of worth left me a long time ago.

• 2012-04-10

  HARDCORE JOB-HUNTING TODAY.

  Bring it.

• 2012-04-06

  It’ll be a lot easier to manage my personal blog now that my laptop is working again.

  Fwuuuuck yeah.

• 2012-03-01

  I am…

  …bored. The lack of passion in this place is disturbing and upsetting.

  Someone save me. You’re needed.

• 2012-02-29

  NEW TITUS ANDRONICUS ALBUM OUT IN NOVEMBER!

  Why can’t I go see them in Nashville with Archers of Loaf and Screaming Females?

  Money sucks, yo.

• 2012-02-28

  Starting this new blog of entirely personal material.

  It will be all personal notes, photos, poetry, stories, and musings.

  …here we go…