sabbatical

watching movies in bed,

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.