I’ve been writing a little this week. Soon, I should need a new ribbon for the anchient typewriter that I use to write drafts on. I’m not sure that I can get one anywhere, though. It’s a Remington from the fifties, manual, of course. I turn a little helpless when I draft. I feel confused by the actual world. The other day, I got to working on a poem at lunch at work and forgot to eat.
One poem in particular is a puzzle that I’ve been toying with. Its lines shift and drift every day. Every run I go on brings it a new stanza. my brain is full of words. It’s like a pool and they’re all floating and diving and adjusting. Write, write, write is all I want to do.