I think these kind of nights fill me with an appreciation for colors and textures and words that allow images full of a range of shades to creep into my mind and work up something to put on a page.
A few bits from my journal of recent:
- Was it Bukowski that said/upright is so overrated?/If he didn't he should have.
- The weave pressing patterns/into my skin that rests/upon the rug of reverence/as I meditate on the life/of annoyances-
- Stories travel linear/ and mark their time with words/filled with suggestion
- counted votes spill upon the walk/in naked rawness so blistered/ by the divisions of public sentiment.