I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas.
My fingers are Santa's little helpers.
My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments.
I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn.
Sisyphus, sweating uphill.
Bukowski,
scribbling away
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy
And the god of imagination.
Not really...
I'm just tired
And
Full Of Poo...
Sunday, June 17, 2012
It's hard to write The Great American Novel when you have a corn dog in the toaster oven.
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