I can feel the approaching winter behind the glass and curtains waiting to freeze me down to the bones I only have this cup of tea and thin veil of fabric between me and it and it's barely enough There's nothing to do though but pass the long dark of night and wake for warmth of the next day and the next with kettle near constant boil and my cup at the ready
Tag: Poetry
-
-
I need to find the rhythm of this machine that has been rescued from dust and ruin and rust of a millennia of waste where is it? in the keys? behind the platen? beneath the type? I'll find it in the hard presses the skipped letters the typos it's somewhere in there lurking waiting to dance
-
Thinking about those late nights
of jazz and smoke and boozethinking about those hungry thoughts
empty cupboards and coffee potsthinking about how to avoid the trap
that nostalgic trap of that melancholy feeling
that feels good and sad
and somehow comfortingthinking about lost loves
lost lives
lost timethinking about how the jazz takes me back
to my old blue room
thirty years in the pastthinking about how my struggles today are different
from my struggles of yesterday
and how impermanent everything isthinking about those rough new prizes
that Walt offered us
and what he would think of todaythinking about all these things
and of what I’ll fill my belly with for lunch
after my walk home