Dear John,

the Bagnall Dam Zone
is just your speed

lots of people crowded in bars
gone to seed

but places
where you could tend
serve drinks and dispense

your brand
of dimestore philosophy

we all need

Your arms are wings
made of wax

and you soar,
flapping hard,

knowing you need
to get as far

from the sun
as you can—

even though
you so desperately

want to fly into it.

Archie,

out here,
in Seligman,

this wind
does not whip your face

there is no wind;

just  hot white heat
that makes it hard to write--

but I do it
even though the sun makes
the paper

a mirage-- or mirror
I don't know which

if a mirror,
then it's your reflection I see

not your face
but your lines your words

and how you'd best
describe the emptiness

and your sense of it.

Ah, the Southwest!


well,
that's all for now

All the best,

Whit

Robert,

I’m writing to you
because

you’re the only one
who

would get me
and this,

driving three hundred miles
and not

remembering

why,

and in an attempt

to get in front of panic
and paranoia

you let the neon
and the smell of fry grease

hand you
your story,

your purpose,

like a plate of barbecue
and flat beer.

All the best,

Whit

the mud is still fresh
from last night's rain

but twigs still crunch
beneath my feet

the leaves are green
as we are deep into Summer

birds chirp
squirrels scale

the trunks of trees
and I wonder


and about the price
of tea

in China

louvered windows refract the sun's rays

I see life through  a glass *****

This year looks much different than last

We are what our eyes judge our first impression of things to be.

My eggs are runny

What we thought we
had

more of

a gold-plated
something

showed we never had
to begin with

a successful person doesn't
wear a watch.