Even when everything is slow,
I am back to writing what you call
the poetry. I do it from a walnut
finish and my view is obstructed.
What I meant by walnut is
a pain in my neck.
Why are you doing it? He sees
from this angle something
his childhood View-Finder (TM)
would not. But almost. Like
certain smells trigger memories,
so do certain colors, right?
I’m so tired of looking for cheap
acts and waiting around for another
train.
Boredom as method. (So trite!)
