post 18 november

justwrite 17 november

I am finishing a book that someone else wrote before finishing my own my wet hair feels long on my shoulders and all of these things are true except this room seems darker than the next which is not a fact because if you subtract the light from this night and add it all together there’s still weather to be had if you’re interested and the pain in my tooth will not compute will not multiply any times or tables and the fables of self-interest are not cautionary enough there’s a tough fence to jump and a lump in my throat with a remote chance of self-improvement along that route so I will tell myself a different sort of tale I will begin with a different tomorrow and the sorrows carried along in pockets have got to go even though there are stories to be told easily sleazily to attract attention perhaps to collapse confidence and to divide potatoes by internet to collect the debt left in relief the fees we’ve paid waylaid yet again the scans too retinal and the cashier laughs at last I am waiting for the tension that has mounted to dismount and the sunset to come up on the back screen the inbetween sleep has got to be deep or my hair will not be dry and the fish already fried will not be eaten by better citizens the healthier wealthier wise with mispronounced surprise chapped into their lips I am tripping over the letters and I am sending them to myself for the post office is lost and the phone won’t start so I will take this piece of heart and I will build



justwrite 16 november

once there was a blank in the tank and when the car started up the feet weren’t enough to measure its treasure in travel the meters were neater and the story was longer several floors high and the surprise of the day is the way we’re caught up I was brought up in a certain way of thinking and I am blinking in the light but it’s just about time for dark and when we park our dreams together it’s a drive-in forever and the dubbing’s a little funny and sometimes there isn’t enough money for popcorn or some forlorn puppy goes bumbling by trying for sympathy but you’ve got me and I can tell you I will never sell you up the river you can have my paddle and the boat too there’s nothing the wind blew my way that I wouldn’t say is yours and the chores are done and the trash is out the dishes are clean and the clothes are too I have weeded the garden I am cooking the sunlight for dinner and when you are back here beside me I will serve such a feast I am pouring out pictures and sharpening the breadknives when we arrive we will depart in peace