We’re in many different places.
For some
It’s a basement
Or a motel room.
For others
It’s a kitchen table
with all the lights off
just the single bulb ahead.
We spend our nights
Smoking and typing
sharpening our senses
with drink or smoke
and typing for hours
night after night.
Klick klick klick ding shhhhhhhht
the typewriter sings it's tune.
For me it always comes back to the porch.
Everywhere I move
I always end up on the porch.
Never without the
Kerr “Self-Sealing” wide mouth Mason jar.
Full of ice cold water
constantly refilled throughout the night.
Always dripping with condensation
even at night.
It’s ******’ burnin’ up outside.
Ya gotta suffer for it
though
That’s what makes the difference.
Right now
someone is alone in a room
pacing back and forth
burning themselves with a cigarette
staring at a page.
They’re the only ones that
will ever see it.
Either the drink or the drug
will take them first.
Or they just slip into and get lost in
the madness.
Then they become as
indecipherable
as the academic intellectuals.
Hell,
It could happen to me too.
We’ll see what happens.
Keeping it going
Every night
standing on the porch
pouring it out
sending off a weekly
5 poems
getting it out there
like so many do.
We’re in many different places.