I finished a poem. Just after shower. I thought I needed more coffee. Maybe I didn’t, but I wasn’t in a mind’s caring frame. Locked in the house all day, battling that bug. I was tired. Not exhausted, just annoyed. I wanted air. I wanted people. I wanted sounds. I wanted to write without writing. And you do that in Living.
My check book boasted its obligation, ownership over my life. I became more incensed. Who did it think it was, that little “book”? You’re hardly a ‘book’, you little manure maverick… You have no content, no message, no depth; you’re a concentration camp of numbers, no color, no life, no no-ness, even.
Realizing a leave was begged, I turned off the laptop, but not before the song ended, “Six Underground”. The story, still in motion, still barreling towards shore. (4/2)