Sunday, January 21, 2007


I find that lowercase seems to appear to be much more attractive the uppercase most of the time. The weather was a bit warmer today, and the beanery was much the same. That place is almost mythical to me. It seems that I would hardly exist if the beanery were not there. At some level, I chart all the years of my life as relating the the beanery in some way, from the early days coming back from the vineyard with dirt on my jeans, to the middle years, getting bowled over by some poem or other, to the recent past, sitting and doing sketches or contemplating the ceiling fans. A legend in my own mind.
sitting in the bean with a cup of tea
someone scribbling poetry in the back
a cup of ceramic banging against the wood
strumming on the guitars and instruments
and keyboards, and the letters of the rivers and memories streaming out of the water-closets and incoherent prose.

The grass is green from all the rain, but the trees are bare, and yet the leaves will come back as the seasons progress and the temperature makes its way back to the warm side of things. I see that the bricks on the churches are piled in even rows, and the cracks on the pavement are arrayed in a certain way, and that each word as it is imprinted in each book has a certain type of drivel associated with it, and that the imprint of the normal and the abnormal are in a bit of a clueless abstraction.

i paused by the fountain
the water streaming down
bricks of the red library
the pausing of bicycle locks
a leaf floated across
and ant on it
the ant each in place
the water streaming to the sea
coming back again as rain
a flash of the sun
the ripples on the water

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