writing session from the grand ballroom

you want a background? you got one. hazed photoshop noise, tint, backdropped. check. question, when can this be done? oh, it’s done right now. finished. stowaway. is it okay to collect stamps? what about coins? tell me the whole deal. what about MP3s? I download and listen later. inspired? I don’t hold my breath for it. comes as
pleasant
surprise
like the . . .
health food store
about to open
directly across the
street from where I work
juice bar, everything!

I’m falling in
and out
of consciousness
the moment
with
rough edges
marked
with
small kitten claws
blurry fast paws
someone
please
pass gauze

yesterday, slept too much
woke up in laurel, md
in V. India
they exchanged my cash
and I bought ginger tea
for the first time
smashed the
clay cup against
the wall when I was done

I refuse to
do too much business
who is this guy?
dollar signs
in his handshake
falling out of
his cuff

when I heard in LA
they’re using hip hop
to teach 1st graders
reading, writing, and math
I thought, right on!
old business-type man
frowns on it
reads a poem outloud
“now that’s poetry”
what’s this guy’s problem

1. saw a rainbow the other day.
2. rained so hard we thought we’d be ripped right off the road.
3. this man speaks, they record his voice.
4. there is a junk drawer in every home.

how many records do you own? how much disc space do you have left? thread topics that never get posted by me.

get this: I’m trying to see all of this as my time. for ten years I’ve been seeing it like here’s work time, here’s personal time. the liberated mind doesn’t think like that. it might be a thick-headed aspiration, but time is time, it’s just a matter how you go through it. you are a variety of selves, you are just as well the next person, you are just as well yourself, self sane, til you bring duality to the table and kick and scream, burst at the seams, get it your way or now way at all, letting yourself go, heading for a fall, dropping the ball, tackled, shattered like a vase.

crisp bills flipping in the air. what’s for lunch today? I’m just a baby bird now with my beak open waiting for rainfall. I don’t hang around truck stops too often. joys come and go, depression clouds gather less. I’ve realized it’s not a chemical imbalance. the mind has its bad habits. brothers and sisters, thank you for your sage wisdom, for writing all these books, a daily pilgrimage for me. Dostoevsky has my head in the clouds of old Russia. Baldwin, Paris. Salinger, where are you, again? Holden was in New York, that prep school at a difficult age. if I thought I’d could do it, I’d write Holden a new set of adventures.

this woman drives by slowly, sticks her head out and asks me where the drop box is – thinking I work for Blockbuster. no mam, that’s next door. confused woman slowly gets the car back around there. it is amusing the way I easily get around town, while the others seem to be getting into some major disagreements with their vehicles. fist fights brutal! in D.C. you see traffic jams that really exist. Ronaoke pretends their traffic jams, tries to simulate what even an ordinary one might look like. in Roanoke you’ve got full turnoff ramps but empty highways! this is truly wondrous!

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