again rushing.  haven’t written in days.

well, haven’t typed in days.  just hurried

notes in these little pages i carry

‘round.  writing’s become my poison, my

drug, religion, sickness, sewer, serene

stream, storm.  writing standing, sitting, doesn’t

make 2 much difference, long as i’m purging

what’s hurting, or healing.  medicinal pen

usage.  good thing i’m not making my own

wine yet–  i’d write out my supply, sporting

an oenoPEN.  need coffee, to further a day–

now i’m away.  in 92 degrees, scribbling like

running rabbits, ink in & out of sore pores.

finishing another draft, courting my own Craft.