Musings. Where do they seep to, down there on the floor?

Here bricks are so rare they are like agates
We wonder who would carry them so far
Here I feel good because I have nothing
I am thinking about

But the sun will set, she knows; its ruddy dooms
Be snuffed like matches, low windows dark once more.

A redhaired man in a rusty salt & pepper van

If you want to do something you have to do it yourself

Your mother said it was all right for you, he said

Probably easier to be dead in the city,
she opined, but also easier to be alive

It did not ask but kicked the door with steel-toed boot
And took possession, one of the roughs: tough,
                      vertiginous, destitute.

The sea of pages; MelvilIe in older age:
The grown man’s sleepy defiance of denial.

I flew onward alone, north
in my Mallard Sprinter, accompanied
by charm and ignorance and that old American

 Riding to the Great Northern Wilderness
we sang about self-correction in the club car,
dreamed up new crimes to put in our autobiographies

take them with a grain of salt. Sincerity
remember is in the mind of the beholder