Friday gets around
Oh, you stylin’ cat. And no hair trimming, its silver growth there in reflections, and someday I’m going to that salon on Newport in OB with hopefully a hot chick behind the shears, ask for a stylish trim, so’s to woo my Muses and aid to my oh so light touch as a poet. It’s the sentences, Brah. It’s me bowing every day to the words, all this scrumptious language, spun and placed with care and intention, even giggled here and now.
There’s enough pens and notebooks, and they haven’t cancelled electricity yet. How did Whitman write, with what exactly? Can – do – I channel some Whitman? The Chambers Brothers? I’m just responsible for me, this side of the street, and for my boys – dna boys and group boys.
For all I know, every single sentence in my world bubbles with magic.
Walking in the seaside sun. At Pannikin. Supporting economies. Hydrating a tattoo. It’s all too beautiful. Ditto the burritos.