Writing

I love it. Of course, you know that.
It's my life's work. You know that too.

What you may not know is how much
I appreciate YOU. I do you know.

Anyway. I'm working like mad on some important papers. I refuse to write shit, so I'm giving the papers more attention, relative to what percentage sufficeable for an A. But. I wanted to say to my friends out there: I haven't forgotten about you. I'll be back soon. Poetry's always talking to me. And sometimes I just have to listen. Most remain scribbled lines forever. Some make it into the public, here and there.

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In the Middle of the Road

He walks
comes to end of the beginning
of this gray, rock-dust road

He steps-onto the pavement
stands on two yellow lines
the sun seems closer, here
hotter on my face. Wind: cold
so cold on my ears and hands

but my face . . . the face forgets
about the cold wind of winter

moments are lifetimes . . . lingering

standing

in the middle

of the road:

a relatively strange

individual.


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Well. I'm off to write some more analysis.
(you know what's really funny is how I remember to spell analysis)