Sunday, February 27, 2011
I rise in a poet’s quest for something that maybe involves vodka. The bed lays rumpled, but only from a book and the Sunday newspapers, and a long night of free associating ideas with a chopped and channeled Chevrolet mind and a Sony voice recorder. Later I will ordain the ramblings by writing them down – then maybe wait for the Spring to raise the ante on excitement. Finn the cat watches seagulls and pretends he’s Chekov. We remain calm.
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The secret word is Weekend
Posted by Mick at 2/27/2011 06:29:00 AM