Spun:

Spin whiskey to me in the cold, deep hills of Kentucky. Smokey minds lie hidden and beyond my eyes. I still can't see, can't hold, can't breathe, can't be. Spin memories in this broken hull of life. This hopeless hope and wonder of anything now called free. It's too dim to dance, I'm too thread-bare to carry, but I'm free and so indeed. Indeed, but too dumb to care it seems, or notice truth before me, some hope right beside my not yet healthy mind. Forgotten in the deepness I am, weary from the travels and falls; from all hope, from any dream of me and my mind half-baked and drying in the sun. Bring back this common interest, this quick blinding sun in moonlight. Fast shadows fall double-quick in time. I'm here, I'm out, I'm dreaming in the cold Kentucky hills, in the fast, still-born washes of the deepest back wood. This is just the flow, the in-breaking rush of water-light, quick like a watershed memory in time. A matchstick memory smooth and quick and flicked to burst forth light in all and less of me.