Should I open my old notebook? It reels
from here to there in my head, cleaning a
few things (clearing a few things). Not
really. Nothing—neither here nor there
(unlike with him who’d have all things
at black or white, never gray). Beige
like Jenks’ horizon, but with littered trash
so colorful the jazz almost erupts anew
(he loves San Francisco because he plays
the saxophone) – the newest date is Dec-
ember, six and a half years ago? Before I
thought this was Mick Jagger, Mick Jagger-
like Jenks’ horizon, but with littered trash
so colorful the jazz almost erupts anew
(he loves San Francisco because he plays
the saxophone) – the newest date is Dec-
ember, six and a half years ago? Before I
thought this was Mick Jagger, Mick Jagger-
furious. What am I missing from this biggish,
furious riot from over seven years ago? I wrote
something when there was nothing else to
write; though it seems I presently have
EVERYTHING to write. Calm. A western
calm and nothing less.
