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.