Winter
The mothers roar
Soothes the baby
The purr like snore
There is no rusing.
Asleep at the wheel burnt out, worn thin by long stretches.
This utopia is so cold in the winter time. Baked in a cloth interior fraying.
The serpentine streets.
Along highway.
Snowflakes land and make it beautiful, till it homogenizes and eventually melts back to the mud.
.
That English fellow is from New England me thinks, somewhere Bostonian. Blondy big boobs is still livin the best life on the west coast. Last of Sandrina was she was sick... then she fell off the map, maybe she’s on YouTube still? Jose Still writing poems, but ain’t seen him around. Timuanne must have given up because I was the only one still upvoting before I ghosted out. Foxy tail is still posting her art, though it’s intermittent. I needed to step back, I realized that building these weird relations on line could turn out super weird IRL. I stop by to check madgoat cause he’s mad skilled at combining humor and history, two of my favorite things, other than that I don’t drop by much, I’m working full time, then teaching on the side, plus two kids, plus red dead redemption 2 was a real time sink, and most nights I wanted to just relax and be Arthur Morgan instead of a bleeding poet. Heading to Vegas next week, and again in March, then hitting up Albania and Portugal in April, so I’m running round and round, spreading my thin paycheques thinner.
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I promised myself I'd be here at least 5 days a week and you are gone being a hardworking handsome man. Tsssk tsssk. I'll keep my eyes open to see when you stop by. Hugs to you and yours!
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