I woke up this morning at
the writing roaring in my head.
I formatted yesterday’s productions
to upload to the Internet this afternoon.
I wrote a couple of poems. Now what?
Cook breakfast for Brenda.
Wash the dishes. Go to
the library and the post office.
In the family car, a gas-guzzler.
Go to the Winn-Dixie and buy something
to cook for supper. I know. How about
macaroni and cheese and frozen peas.
Sliced beefsteak tomatoes.
Some kind of packaged cookies
for dessert. Something sweet.
Strawberries and cream. Peaches.
Figs off Brenda’s tree.
Take a nap. Go to bed.
Maybe watch a rented movie.
I read much of the night
and go south in the winter.
I used to go. I don’t get out much
anymore. I’m no fun. I’m old.
Not dead but moribund.
I don’t eat Cool Whip yet.
I don’t eat processed-cheese food-product.
I don’t eat white bread.
I don’t eat oleomargarine.
I don’t read Time and Newsweek.
I watch teevee but it’s like going to
a freak show at the circus.
I have geek fatigue.
What happened to
the aid for
What happened to
the CIA after 9-11?
It got bigger. Nobody knows.
It’s a secret. Somebody’s making
a lot of money out of it. It’s private.
Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.
First, kill all the lawyers.