Sitting in my dreary room,
Cold and drafty.
Space heater pumping out warm air,
Still I am chilled to the bone.
Shivering as I attempt to type,
Sounding out words with chattering teeth.
Physically drained from a long day at work,
It will lead to my untimely demise.
Searching for thoughts of comfort,
A reason to smile.
A text,
I smile.

small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.