It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.
Later – pushed thoughts will blister,
tips of trees will burn-
Come, stand on the edge and view this-
The boy sat on the banking looking for trout in the brook. The earth, mixed with growing ferns, smelled of something he didn’t know. He wanted the trout to come from the shaded area so he could watch them. “It’s not possible to live in another mind.” The boy said out loud, not knowing what his father had meant. The boy promised himself to never slam the door and leave. His mother replied to no one, “It’s when you care for someone more than yourself.”
I write things.
They like to be said.
So they are.
It’s hard keeping memories. They don’t always like us and sometimes
they are alive and know they are and when we don’t let them be they
then decide they’ll not let us be, so we twist and turn them around trying
to make them be what we needed them to be from the very beginning.
That’s an odd happening
Listening to difficulty
when there wasn’t any
I have a few things going on. We’re building a house. I have two jobs. I can’t feel my finger tips on my right hand and I met a very nice human working at a book store in North Conway, New Hampshire, who didn’t know who Hemingway, or Steinbeck was. Also, I have a beer next to me and I’ve just cheers’d it because I’ve agreed to a book signing, and more importantly I’ve finally found a publication worth submitting to, again.
I love the simplicity of a truthful thought. They lead me better than the others.
Such as the fact that it is raining outside and the clouds are above the rain;
I’m lucky enough to see and hear both the darkness of the clouds and the
landing of the rain. I’d like to think they know me, but it’s possible they do not.
I’m sitting in my head. It’s my condition. I
pulled up a chair, faced the wrong way, and
here I still sit, waiting. Challenging my