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 a God of Imagination.
I might just be hopeless enough to self publish bits and pieces of the thousands of pages of the written things in my garage, in notebooks and on the hard drives of various computers now.
To justify my existence and to help ease you into REM sleep.
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