Last day, November. 15 to birth
Book. Deadlines, especially this 1,
Don’t intimidate this writer type.
Lava’d mood. Escape this vile Alcatraz–
Letting the material, my venom, ferment fully.
Stuck in this dusty shed, ants encircling my soles
Putrid work, keep me busy
All that can surface.. Scorn
No more permission pitches.
Just executing. Here. My scene.
Not sure where I’m going with this, but I
Do. Not waiting for go-ahead’s, clearance.
Writers don’t do that. Not with my notebooks. Tonight’s rest, song, singing
My way to episodical anecdotals.