The ash of smoked opium

           This week my sequel to The Dark Streets of Decay was published, but I have no desire to propagate and promote. Having my writings published isn’t what blows my skirts up although I do enjoy when someone reads and relays their feelings because it helps me remember our earth bound errands. I spend most of my time thinking about things like how in 1775 where Pluto was in its orbit around the sun it has not returned to that spot yet and all of the United States History has occurred before Pluto has made a complete orbit around the sun and it makes me feel as if none of this matters in contrast to the vastness of time and space. But then I think we are the only thing that does matter because cold and distant space cannot offer a warm embrace and warm embraces are what we really want.

          I guess I shouldn’t generalize, who knows what the Phantom Killer in Texarkana wanted in 1946 and God help us all if the religious extremists win the day. In the meantime I will wear my words on my sleeve because writing is the only thing that lets me be me and the only thing I really I want to do. Whether I sit on this porch while the sun is searing the synapses of my brain or I sit by the sea and soak in its rhythmic vibrations I go inside myself to bring out the words, so deep that my surroundings no longer seem real and all I can feel is the wonder of the words wrapped around my mind.
          The world is unkind and I alleviate the suffering by being alone or am I just too sensitive to survive the frigid temperatures of human interactions? Hillbilly hammers and banjos that clamor might make up another person’s day but no one can reach my habitation unless they pass through the dark streets of decay and realize why I never have anything to say, only that I couldn’t stay on those streets, but I will always be the person who said that whatever is the reason you get out of bed it is reason enough.

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