Less About Business

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.

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