I have a headache the size of the Grand Canyon.
Mose Allison singing about how he’s the “Seventh Son” and there’s no doubt he’s telling the truth.
This poem is supposed to be about the Excoriator and Chief and maybe in the end it will be. I feel like I jumped out of an airplane without a parachute or peanuts for that matter.
The words are not coming to me like they were just a week or so ago.
Maybe I need another shot of Katie Boyd to wake me up and get my word synapses popping again.
People think you write when down, but for me it has always been the opposite and when the black dog is nipping at my heels the creativity seems to just shrivel up and croak.
Dr. Strangelove has come to America. I guess we shouldn’t be all that surprised when no one wants to face up to anything and having money seems to be the ultimate test.
America is now that playground from our childhood where the bully always kicked the crap out of that one weird kid. Actually I think America has prided itself on being that bully for too long now and maybe it’s time we had our lunch money taken from us.
I will always be a pacifist and believe that might doesn’t make right. That belief hardly means I’m naïve or a pushover when it comes to drawing a line in the sand.
Thinking about eating a Hungry-Man Frozen Dinner and maybe that will help this headache to go away.
First I am going to go to the restroom and make some room for my late-night snack.
Even poets need sustenance. Even poets need someone to love when the dark night comes calling like a passive aggressive freight train from Hell.