scheming for things like
looking at bank statements
and keeping track, making
plans, getting sick of roseville,
being nice and content,
being strong and soft and jamie.
feeling the season of solitude
wearing off, envisioning a life
back where life is and leaving
this nothingness. leaving these
open wide roads of industrial
neighborhoods and new
buildings, big churches, big malls.
looking at my wall with postcards
taped near my window and tiny
notes with "to my sweet baby
james" and tickets for bon iver
at sunrise, hollywood forever.
san francisco, paris, allie's art
show, swiss folk paintings,
british flags, erin's gift to me.
feeling like i've been on sabbatical.
feeling like jack kerouac in his
mum's house after his adventures
just on the back porch, in seclusion
with a typewriter and dope.
scribbling in creative frenzy all
that has happened, but more
beautiful of course. writing all
poetic the sad, mystical thing of
loss. great loss. and finding yourself
again. feeling like jack kerouac. yes.