Chewing on

I have been collecting old photos


Photos from other people


Their grandmothers, their sons (sobs)


I asked my friend, battling the flow of the flea market,
How for they attain such photos?
When an old person dies,
She informs me.

I love looking at them, touching them, something about their unpretentious simplicity, the shabby colors, the meager garb, the awkward or failed poses, the sweetness of a glance, an older pair of Germans interrupted by the dinosaur like antics of short haired high waisted young boys, or the model thin girl-woman slouching in a gorgeous field with the pale blue sky and sweet composition of sun striking her gangly hair, it continues to amaze me that I have such access to these precious moments of utter strangers, the ugly ones are my favorite, or the gorgeous simple types that don't try, merely catch your eye with the blandness of a hated life in the drenched in a style affected by time, or lack of style affected by lack of time, features of a face someone could love. I love them. I adopt them, these old photos, with their fabulous childlike flaws, my favorite is when something is scribbled on the back, like a makeshift postcard, a worldly sentiment flipped over like a weird bug, vulnerable for the world to chew on.