My Spot
In my house
I have an “office”
a guest bedroom
cluttered with a bed
a desk covered with books
a shelf my father made
covered with books
and 6 typewriters
this office
to some
is a mess
a spot that no respectable person
could get any reasonable work done
but I love my office
I’m comfortable in my office
it’s just me
and my dog
in my office
when work needs to be done
it’s my spot
and as I sit at this desk
surrounded by thousands of words
by those who chose this path
before me
all I hear are my own
Starting Over
At 2 A.M.
The smoke rises
a little slower
the drink tastes
a little smoother
and the thoughts come
a little easier
I sit here
in this chair
and contemplate
what the day before meant
what I did to make it worth while
what I gained
if anything
I think of what the sunrise brought
I think of what the sunset took away
It seems better now
than when it began
but when it ends tonight
it starts again tomorrow
Digging in.
When you reach the point
of not knowing
whether you’re close to death
or
as alive as you’ve ever been
the point
where living
has taken precedent
over surviving
don’t stop.
Too many
can’t tell the difference
and take the safer route out
Too few
find it in their gut
to dig in
and
press on
to make the thoughts
that go against
all that they’ve ever been told
become more than what they see
when their eyes are closed
Here in the City
I often think about
the small town
I grew up in
I start to miss
the friendliness
and southern charm
I sometimes wish
I was there
and not in the city
I try to keep in mind
that each place
has its highs and lows
and ups
and
downs
here in the city
I don’t know
every third person
I see in a store
people don’t worry
who sees them
having a beer with their meal
here in the city
everybody minds their own
and you do too
back in the country
traffic isn’t an issue
and
home cookin’ ain’t far away
back in the country
you know your neighbors
but their house is down the road
more than a stones throw
I love it here in the city
but damn I miss pissing off my porch
This pen
This pen
stays in my pocket
every day
everywhere I go
it stays
half cocked
and loaded
ready to inflict
the scribbles of my mind
wherever
and
whenever
I see fit
without this pen
it would all back up
the thoughts
ideas
and voices
would start to fester
with no direct path
from my mind
to paper
and that
my friends
would cause a scene
that even this pen
couldn’t handle