Working on a poem. I try to recall the word used clinically when a schizophrenic person replaces words with other words that have a completely different definition. I had a beer earlier, and I have a light weight tolerance, so I guess I could be classified as drunk, and I usually don’t write drunk. Well, it’s not like I’m plastered.
I’ve been thinking of taking up smoking again. I used to dream the words to poems in the thin blue of cigarette smoke tendrils. And it was a great way to meet new people. Now, I am a voracious second hand smoker. I love it. But tell someone you don’t know that you’d like to bum some second hand, and they think you’re either crazy or hitting on them. I think I could turn all that into a decent poem.
I’ve been finding poems in the oddest spots lately. It’s like they are potato bugs hiding beneath rocks. There are rocks with one beneath them, and rocks with five.
Last night, I found a poem in a hailstorm. There’s one in the dustpan now, waiting.
This life has a danger right now. The threat of solitude. Blog, dear one, you can only carry a girl so far.