Sweeping Naked in Socks
Thanks for the visual, he says. Hey, no problem.
I'm awash in photographers these days.
Speaking of disturbing visuals, I saw a bike commuter get hit on the way to work yesterday. Helluva way to start the day--for him more than me, I'm sure. Still, it sucked.
Been ending the day lately musing, mooning or reading in front of the fire. It's wonderful how deliciously slowly time passes when it's not modularized in half hour, hour or two hour tv chunks. There seems so much more of it. I've a renewed appreciation for this semblance of meditation. It's so readily devalued, dismissed by the Western notion, the self-imposed "need" to be doing something, or to be out. It's a sad, sad, sad, sad world when you seek to avoid your own company. I read in two sittings a book that's been on my "To Read" list for over a year, as well as some input from reputable journalists who also find the whole Iraq thing baffling, what with the anthrax assailants still on the loose, not to mention Bin Laden and Al Qaeda. Wonder if they're looking for a gig in the suburbs too?
And when I'm not writing poetry I'm selling crap on EBAY (Over $200 bucks so far this month!); seeing entirely forgettable performances at The Kennedy Center, being pleasant when not yawning while on dates, and otherwise losing friends and alienating people.
Life. Be in it.