dailies

walking along the american river sunday morning the heat already intense the sun a low yellow ball i find crazy cloud sitting with his blind girl on a fallen tree she had his cock in her hand gently playing with the old radish

oh crap, he said when he saw me, here comes another poet

i wished them a good morning and noticed crazy cloud's hand disappearing into the girl's robe and sitting on the mud bank beside him a half-full jug

he took a sip and offered me some i declined mumbling i prefer coffee in the morning rather than an early morning slug

working on your own redthread verse? he teased

i could answer none but how my claims of writing stumble and fall how each morning the stranger's face i shave before i leave for work looks older and less secure about its place in the universe

shut the fuck up, the old man said.  i've heard that before each writer must scribble his own oblivion each writer must find his own interesting noise and when you see that stranger's face in the mirror tell him death is the easy part living is hard tell him to stop fearing dying because he is in the midst of dying right now

have a drink you dumb fuck, said crazy cloud.  then go away and sort out your sobs

no thanks i said and turned to go looking up to the cloudless sky the sun a big yellow ball the sweat starting to rinse my t-shirt i thought i might agree that the process of living is knowing i am dying right now i might agree that i may start with a dying fall