Don’t tell them too much about your soul. They’re waiting for just that.
—Jack Kerouac, Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954. (via 13neighbors)
(Source: , via areulivingthelife)
it sits outside my window now
like and old woman going to market;
it sits and watches me,
it sweats nervously
through wire and fog and dog-bark
I slam the screen with a newspaper
like slapping at a fly
and you could hear the scream
over this plain city,
and then it left.
the way to end a poem
is to become suddenly