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.
in rooming houses.
A river always flowing.
I am the nightmare of stagnancy and a God of Imagination.
I don't know what I'm going to write about. Nothing unusual there. Do I write only poetry? Only write on one LONG story? Only write short stories? Continue to rewrite my old, short stories? Do I take it to the laundry porch and annoy the neighbor, or to the backyard by the garden, underneath the lemon tree, in Deprak Chopper Phil's Garage while waiting for microwavvvvv burritos? (never)
I should bring my old-timey record player and only write for the length of the 78.
I wrote a long-ass rewriting of a short story the other night. The short story became longer. I don't know if I like it.
I, I, I,
barely write and when I do I write about not writing
The always thorn in my side, side, side
the eternal and creative frustration on my life, life, life
I'm looking at the palm tree fronds in my backyard
It's late, I know
Thinking of things
people noise is coming from the alley
they're up to no good
i don't care
not supposed to be up now
i dont care
we're all tired
i think more than you all do in your lifetimes
im not special
i just care