I was going to write tonight but it's getting late so I might wait
and write tomorrow,
aha and tomorrow never comes, isn't that what they say?
I think therefore I might write today.

Of what? who knows, I'll just put the pen to the paper and see how it goes,

nothing comes to or springs from my mind and I am resigned to watching the night go through its death throes until the morning shows me what I must do.

This isn't writing; it's just me muttering my words out loud, trying to shut out the sound of the screaming ink. Sometimes, I think, but mostly, I don't, and that's something else that won't get me a gold medal.

What is this
You bring?
All wrapped up
And
Tied
With string


The excitement of childhood,
May this feeling
Never leave
What's hidden?
What's found?
Shake and listen
For a
Sound

Someone's thoughts
Contained inside,
Expression of love
Cannot be
Denied

Time to open up
"It's a pebble from the beach"
One that you picked
Just for me,
Only you're eyes could see,
It's perfect,
For me

Sometimes
there are not enough hours in the day to fit in all the work they want to put in my way so I chill and take time out to recall another fall, one time, the bread line, that me which was me for a long time and suddenly I find that the hours fit into the day just fine.

I'm going to meet Don,
Quixote or Corleone
it depends on the book.

And I moan when I think it's not all about me but it's all about me and any fool can see that except for this **** who's writing this twaddle.

Dropping like flies
and
it could be the spray
or it could be
the brick wall
you put in their way.

If it's not one thing
it's another
as Mother often said to me

and all that now is history,

but they're still out there
fighting a war.

What a load of..
..take that road off
the map,
but
we all go down it in the end
some make believe that it's a friend,
I believe that it's a foe
thus I shall not go.

1965
and
little squirts asking,
'penny for the guy'

these days everyone dresses like a guy
and a penny's not any use
anymore.