Lying in bed and finding typing difficult to do with any sense of rhythm.
I have Clifford Brown queued up on the iPod and Dawkins as my nighttime reading.
I type now, in the dark, by touch alone.
Medications have been taken and callouses removed, Ruger LC9 on the nightstand – I am naked ready for action.
My nails are long and the moon, nearly full, is no longer blood, calling for the end of times.
I rest easy – thinking long thoughts about David Ignatow, Russia, and the wars in general. I am not a purveyor of the selfie or silly quizzes though I take them out of boredom. I am heavy bored because I lack inner resources. Thank you John Berryman.
My wife wears too many clothes.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 