Saving money. For what. Freedom.
Not sure if that can be bought.
Waiting another lifetime for this
Mocha. My mood this morning
talking. Sorry.
Or maybe it’s realism’s
Dust storm.
Or is that snow. Too close. Looking
At the vineyards, the natural edifices
Over watching. Shifting temperament
Shapes, slightly.

Pulled into this parking lot,
Set in shade. To vent on this phone.
Market, just a handful of yards, or
skips (not sure), to right. Do they
Have those little notebooks I
Like? Maybe. Don’t want to hop
out this Creative capsule. Do I
Have to clock in, there, today?
Music, also from this device,
Telling me to rebel, to leave.
Somehow materialize wings.
You don’t need this. And don’t
Argue with limply confronting
Gusts. Just act. You don’t need
Permission. For anything. You’re
a Writer. With a few tocks left b4
A double. How will I get to its end?
Write till I visit that thing the way
We all prefer. Out door. Back to

ours. Making these hours mine, I
Think. This day’s in my pages. It’s
My follower. Not reversed. Thank
You, mocha– And all difficult, all
only aiming to scuffle with
this toxic ink. Autonomous animal,
Me.

(10/13/12)