501…

yesterday i posted my 500th piece on this poetry/prose/essay/hybrid experimental journal…an exercise that wakes me…what word sounds better…cut…cut…cut…always cutting…sanding…a task which never ends…never…

it is discipline…craft…love…need…cathartic…confession…and soul…not a thing…nor a word do i regret placing on the page at 3 in the morning…again…Mailer was right…it is the spooky art …

i am consumed by writing…listening and watching America in homeless shelters…beggars on street corners…whores in late night bars… diners with redhead waitresses…psych-wards…pills popped and shots taken by crazies…junkies…detoxed drunks…children left behind…a home where death awaits while memories slip past hour by hour by hour…abandoned malls…burnt-out cars… a love affair with a beautiful blonde…who will forever mystify me…

of these i write…

late nights at The Pepper Pod…Port Authority…Irish dives…busses taken up and down and all around…stops in Cinci…Pittsburgh…New York…that terrible terminal in Toledo…listening to jazz in parks as the good citizenry of a country gone crazy walk by…pushing strollers…pushing tea…pushing…pushing…to get-by…aren’t we all…

i am a writer…not an author…a writer…this is craft…discipline…not fashion…

shame-on those that pose…

it is 4 in the morning…

goodnight…

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