so many trees!


I’ve heard the stories, every Dalish child has. The Dales, this beautiful place that used to be ours, and which was taken from us. So much history here, so much sorrow. A tree for each life that was lost.

So many trees.

Now that I’m walking this ground, I know for certain. This land will be called ‘home’ by our people again one day, wherever they might be from. This I swear on my life.

We are the last of the Elvhenan. Never again shall we submit.

- Master Nindarhmen Lavellan, from a page of his personal journal.



* Diane, 11:30 am, February 24. Entering the town of Twin Peaks, five miles South of the Canadian border, twelve miles West of the state line. I’ve never seen so many trees in my life. As W. C. Fields would say I’d rather be here then in Philadelphia. Fifty-four degrees on a slightly overcast day. Weatherman said rain. If you get paid that kind of money for being wrong sixty percent of the time it beat working. My mileage is 79,345. Gauge is on reserve. Riding on fumes here. I’ve got to tank up when I get into town. Remind me to tell you how much that is. Lunch was … uhh … six dollars and thirty-one cents at the … Lamplighter Inn, that’s on highway two near Lewis Fork. That was a tuna fish sandwich on whole wheat, slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee. Damn good food. Diane, if you ever get up this way that cherry pie is worth a stop. Okay. Looks like I’ll be meeting up with a ahh … Sheriff Harry S. Truman. Shouldn’t be to hard to remember that. That will be at the Calhoun Memorial Hospital. I guess we’re going to go up to intensive care and take a look at that girl that crawled down the railroad tracks off the mountain. I’m pretty sure I’ll be checking into a hotel. I’m sure the sheriff will be able to recommend a clean place, reasonably priced. That’s what I need, clean place, reasonably priced.
Oh Diane, I almost forgot. I got to find out what kind of trees these are. Their really something.
#happytwinpeaksday #twinpeaks #goodmorning #davidlynch #buenosdias

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Otherwise known as; Poems written by William Poindexter and then performed by him at Annie’s on Slam Poetry Night, Number Four.

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         A soft cough, a deep breath.

         “This is Cowardice

You wax poetic about my freckles, as if the stars hold no light to the spots on my face

You compare my eyes to fire and tell me of how you’d like to burn

You marvel at my arms like there’s anything remarkable about them

Sometimes it seems like I am the beautiful one in our relationship

Simply because my throat closes like a noose around any compliment that attempts to pass through my lips

To remedy this, I wrote a poem

(This poem if you hadn’t figured it out yet)

I grew up a country boy, surrounded by trees- so many goddamn trees- exploding with deep greens that told stories as old as time, trapped in the rings of roots, roots that have worked with every ounce of their stubbornness to make leaves that unique wonderful green

Your eyes are the only thing that have ever matched that green, swirling in complicated patterns I would be happy to get lost in; you’ve got the kind of eyes that make a country boy homesick

I was always told that tattoos were dirty, things unclean people did to sully themselves further, but there is artwork hanging in renowned museums across the world that will never match the way your tattoo, ever growing, moves against your skin like water on stone, eroding the sturdy walls I built, and I got my handiness from my father, so that shit’s laid deep

The broadness of your shoulders could envelop me, give me a home I would never want to leave, a home just as warm as the one I grew up in but better because it isn’t a cage, too, and I feel so God damned safe in your arms that it kills me because I’ve never felt that safe before and I don’t know if I know how to let someone else keep me safe but you make me want to learn

Your hands are smooth like pearls and as dangerous as any claw I’ve ever felt snapped tight around my own; your hands are builders in their own right, writing words more astounding than anything I could fix, and your hands fix, too, but you continue to marvel at how I put things back together, not realizing that your hands are sometimes the only thing keeping me from falling apart

Your lips are curved like the prettiest petals of a rose, new and curious, bursting from stems with a determination to live like no other and when they touch mine I know what a match feels like, lit up and burning, but like I was made for this moment, made to be sent up in smoke, made for kissing you

Everything about you is beautiful, seductive, captivating

A million adjectives that I don’t know because you are the English major of the two of us

I look at you and wonder how everyone doesn’t just fall in love watching you laugh; how people don’t stop and start composing, writing, creating art in your likeness so they can remember it forever; how anyone could look at the two of us and think I was the beautiful one

It’s sad, in a way, that you chose me

There are people who would love to sing praises of your beauty right to your face, lift you up and make you feel as great about yourself as you should

And I,

I couldn’t even invite you to hear this poem.


I love trees for some reasons and also from this sentence, ❝Imagine if trees gave off wifi signals, we would be planting so many trees and we’d probably save the planet too! Too bad they only produce the oxygen we breathe.❞ So, #GoGreen everyone! And for those out there who smoke, please don’t smoke! Smoking kills you.
Flashback to this green bujo. 💚☘️🌱

Love Bites!