Grifted from the madness of it all. Get the notion to write, usually. After months of other affairs or. Get this notion, that desirous to. Write, usually with the right. But when it comes right down to. It, when this notion begins to. Gestate, I end up sprawled on. My twin bed staring at a. Ceiling fan, trying desirously to.

Its not enough to be alive. You can feel what thats like. To feel those different feels. Like a weed through winds. And god pisses very hard on. The streets but before it can. The lights come on and. Summer is perfect like wine. Throwing Chairs in the Garbage.

Call of the Night Panther. There is no sparrow that follo.

The Dawn Is Quite A Sight. So I rose up in the dark. Put on my shoes, a hoodie too. My dog, she did not bark. The birds are already at work. The sun has not clocked in. My, my, the sound of silence. In the city that I live. I hit the road for fresher milk. The roads are oh so empty. And a different feel was felt. The only souls that share this time. Are ones I seldom meet. The night shift crews, the veterans.

If i ever become an alcoholic i can pinpoint the day it started. Thanks so much to the Boston Poetry Magazine! I had just left. That I hated the world. And full of white clouds. That it looked very much. Of raining a single sombrero. Raining down from the sky. I wanted a single sombrero.