a short poem:
the angry neighbor or the busted headlight
pick at that hangnail and it will bleed
i look out of my window in the morning and wonder exactly where that limitless world went
then the garbage truck rolls by
crushing a squirrel
that got confused when crossing
--geo
started that short one last fall and just getting around to completing the thought. i've been energized as of late with another successful event at the Marketplace. it's great to see others come out and show another side of themselves.
writing is cathartic, yes, and it's therapeutic, sure. but it's also fun. how simply amazing that we have these 26 odd little symbols and we have turned them into the hammer, anvil, coin, cloak, needle, parchment, well and transmission of our civilization.
what would you be if you could not or did not write?
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