There was a night this week that changed all future nights, and no amount of dancehall will restore stomachs to earlier states.
There was a noise, and a darkness, and now there is a search for small spots, shedding light on stages.
It is cool outside, desert leaves damp and frosted. Nest of hay: rafts in mud puddles.
The sun is out, as it was, and will be. Burning away buoyant clouds. Small mountains sturdy in foreground.
Is this how it feels to lose earth
or to recognize, and remember?
About Me
- Justin Bendell
- I write, edit, make music, & teach college writing. My writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, Meridian, Washington Square Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Thuglit (RIP), and elsewhere. I make lo-fi psych pop with fuguers cove, and weirdness with a dozen other projects. I edit literary mags from time to time and co-host Point Blank Podcast: Hardboiled, Noir, and Detective Fiction.
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