early

a pale grey fog twists around the tree limbs, tiny beads of moisture glint off of new green growth covering the damp ground. it is too early for birds, too early for the sound of car engines rumbling to life, dragging weary consumers to their killing jobs for another day. I sit here at this machine wondering, as always,

what's the point?

we must fight to drag any meaning at all from these dark ugly days, we must resist with the creative revolution of art. a typewriter and a sixty watt bulb and a glass of good red wine. it has to be enough.

I spent the night cleaning out my shelf of published work, organizing them, etc. you'd think I was Somebody, some kind of Writer. maybe one guy reads something and thinks, "fuck that guy, I can write better than this..." and the lineage continues, down from Dos to Hem, Fitz and Miller, Buk and Pound and Eliot and Cummings and Fante and Nietzsche and Anderson and T. Williams and Hamsun, down to me and McCreesh and j.barrett and LCBerriozabal and then, down thru the line and the light and the word and the way.

we'll see. for now, there is only the poem.