Right this way

I have been very dissipated lately. Lethargic, mourning my lack of progress on any aspect of my life. And sleeping. My old friend, the bed. I know, at my old age, that nothing will get done unless I do it, but logic don't enter into it.

Started a book I've wanted to read forever, case sensitive, which is a murder mystery in poetry. Also have purchased (of course) The Lineup: Poems on Crime. In the mid 90s, I had a chapbook literary magazine (through the copier) called Work Outa Buffalo. In 1996, I did an issue called Trouble is my Business. Hard-boiled poetry.



But this was done by mostly men, so it's gone further. Bitter? Sleepy.

Seems

I only come here to post a picture. Like this one. But it's a comfort, isn't it? Though I have no desire to be planted, that little angel was probably a child. The sympathy is palpable.

I am currently on the hunt for a rainbow worm. It's very elusive, very cunning. This place, so damp, is having a water break problem. This after the whole area near my complex was dug up and new pipes were installed. The dog upstairs keeps barking, because his asshole owner leaves the vertical blinds in the sliding glass door open. Golden retrievers are so stupid, pretty untrainable. Probably bred to imbecile. Pretty dog though, female I think. She's very slim.