I want blank pages and pens, space enough to just let it all go -- to
transcribe some history of these days, I fear, as usual, that words
won't suffice and that a lack of expression will result in blankness.
There is potential for waste, breaking and color. Yet a clouded
existence prevents action.
I'd take it all back if I could, rewrite spoken history transferred on
wires on far away roads, pacific waters drenching my thoughts, my
seams. There's a waxing moon in Brooklyn, fall is here - rooftop views
are clear and full of stars. I'll take it.
I like when I wake up with a cold nose.