cold

i am one can of thick-and-hearty lentil soup away from going home for thanksgiving. there is still a box of wheat tabbouleh salad that was left behind by the girl who lived here before me, but i eat cold things out of cans these days. eating has become a purely mechanical experience. gas in the tank.

a teacher of mine once said that the purpose of poetry is "to tell the truth beautifully."

"and after that," i told somebody this week, "i had no real questions about why-poetry."
he smiled. "it presupposes that there is an inherent value in truth."

i loved that he opened that door and i loved more that we chose not to walk through it.

writing is hard these days. a bad dry cough in my brain.
god give this to be a good vacation.