Arrived at Gleatherland, where dogs roam happy; poetry gets read; wine is slurped from the coffee mug; Radical Face’s Home plays while you rest in the sun facing south, and people watch neighbors slip out to the port-a-potty.
Since I’ve been reading poetry by Barbara Guest, Hilda Mosley, Charlie Bukowski, and Philip Whalen, and while I’m waiting for James to get the hell up, here’s my blog post in poem.
Hueco with O’Connor, he comes from CATS.
(Not the meowy musical, but there’s that.)
O’Connor sleeps all day until East Spur.
But I’m amped to attack North – it’s cheaper.
Tomorrow’s Tash’s birthday, the big three
And we will rage upon the open range
By which I mean watch birds as they fly by
Strangers, far off in furrowed hill veins
And smell free feral friends with fur and manes
Until the smell of wine and cactus mix
In porticoes of my mind’s sleepy state.