The damage, and the skunk cabbage; and the skunks themselves… the rout of the poet.
As I walked, the sun began to set. People were walking by, and walking through: many chance encounters. And then, it all happened. The blues.
I speak in cryptic notes. That’s my way, my style, sometimes. It’s what I like to do, sometimes, when I’m blue.
The sky—it took many colors, not just blue. It grew, grew to the height of a mushroom in the forest, toppling trees and clouds.
And then, the rout. The rout—it was blue. I was blue. All was blue—bedizened.
Irised, if you like. The moon was irised, a big, fat blue eye, right down the center of its brain.
I walked to the center of town. What was I doing, there? I thought about it, still think about it now, to this day, as I write.
The right to write: it’s a good one, one I take to the center of my brain.
A Glass of Ginger Ale
A glass of ginger ale for breakfast, all I felt like having. A quarter can of peaches was available, but I opted out.
The fizz—good stuff. The taste, fine varnish, but sweet. Ginger is a root. Sliced, it goes with sushi.
Again, the fizz. Carbonated collapse.
Someone may care about this. That’s why I write. It might make a difference to someone, someday.
Someone, opening up a can of soda, in the morning, and wondering why.
Peaches are good and wonderful, but they weigh down the stomach. With the ginger ale, you could fly, fly like a sparrow, or a robin; common birds enough.
Light fare, light writing, all in order for the day about to commence, still utterly dark at 5:45,
In November, the month just beginning, when I can write anything and say it’s what I feel, and therefore good.
The mist was cool as I smoked my cigarette. One window, bright orange, lit across the street. All I noticed. There may have been more, to see, but I didn’t see it.
I enclosed myself in the darkness inhabiting me, encompassing my sight, suffusing itself in my mind, my brain.
The darkness—it was comforting and dead, and alive. Living like a living day, bright blue and well advanced into late morning.
It was only 6.
6, and I wasn’t tired. Just enjoyed my cigarette, and glanced askance at the orange across the street.
Red tip atop a radar tower on a Coast Guard station, in the black of morning. Nothing else to see; except, in the distance, if you had looked, the sea.
Just the smoke of a cigarette, white.
White smoke the thoughts that filled the mind; slight, and light, and airy. Nothing to trouble the mind.