Ft. Smith is *not* working out. Too small, too many cops, not enough options.
All goes well, otherwise. Am eating, sleeping in an abandoned van, and closely observing street
life in a manner I've not done for well over a dozen years. Poetry is running through my head,
and I have a good feeling about all of this.
Don't know why I'm going through this, but feel it's where I'm supposed to be just now.
This is really a time of great introspection, reflection. Am feeling a lot of really intense
good feelings about life in general, poetry in particular.
Will stay in close touch via Hotmail. Damn library was closed Sat
Sun and Mon, so today is the first time I've had a chance to write since Muskogee.
At night
there is just enough space
between the torn-out seats
for me to lie down
on a carpet which coughs up
motes of something
old and mechanical
so many torn-out parts
is my one set of clothing getting greasy?
Is this a safe place?
the van
cants
the wheels off on one side
so i might roll away
forever into the eternity
of the forgotten ones
but the torn-out seats
hold me.
it's fairly comfortable.
the engine has been torn out
so i look out through the hood
into a hole of the night
mosquitoes come in now and then
i let them feast
on ankles and feet
for what can i do?
drive myself crazy swatting?
lie back
let them sup
i am their version
of the
Salvation Army
Above not meant to be a poem, but just notes. So much is going on. All will be well.
Much love,
DickensXXX
