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.