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Comfort Zone? No Comment…

Ha! “Writing comfort zone?” I’m never comfortable in composition. I prose in self-doubt, self-denial, and an ass load of anger. And I write bad poesy in an even worse mood. A part of all this ire is technical.

I can’t spell, and I’d play by the rules of grammar, if I knew what they were. So to the technical, add lazy. And to the lazy add ready excuse. I’m an autodidact.

And that’s why I write angry and sans any “comfort zone.” I’m convinced if I had only graduated high school, had the opportunity to explore all my latent vices as an undergrad, and then put depravity to test on a year long tour of Europe, by the time I hit grad school I would have been a Nobel winner in waiting. Stockholm bound by my mid-forties. A fine age to ravage a bevy of literary groupies.

So for me, never a comfort zone, and now I’m losing muscle tone, and leaking memories. And spilling your bourbon ain’t like spilling your guts, and to write from your gut hurts too damn much. So I post little piss-ant posts, on my blog, where every post is the last post. Which may be a clever tag line but doesn’t speak to what I really want, make that, need to write.

So thanks for a fine question. I had fun answering.

The Length Of It

An early Sunday dinner
in un-conditioned air
rare for August
and simply fare
poultry- which the new
puppy sampled
returned to his
and Susan to her
leaving me to a lazy
to sip and watch
late summer light


Damnit —
There is no method in motive or madness
No way to file
or find fast
the particulars of character.

One’s makeup is motley
Disposable and scatter-shot
Like the Sunday paper on late Sunday afternoon
The personality of supplements.

One Day At A Time

I’m going to start doing Sundays sober
with the Times unread
and the game unwatched
and pass on the beach
to stay off-line
and out of the bar

And if negating Sunday proves easy,
I’ll random walk a week
to annul, for instance,
Thursday, which
I’ve never really
cared for


On Sunday, after baseball, I take up song lyric writing. No foolin’. Moon and June to soon discover, same as last Sunday, that I have little talent in the area. Code, I can’t either. I sing others’ songs and use others’ apps. So it’s off to a small batch bourbon and the London Review Of Books. Where I read about others’ books.


Sunday Grace

Sipping this gray Sunday aside
three moves removed from mate
my position under pressure
with your pleasure demonstrable

Sunday gray is benighted gray
or old gauze dingy
Sunday gray injures
and drop shadows

I can’t get hip to sunday gray
two moves removed from game
my plan now vague
with your smile in focus

Sunday gray is sure-enough gray
an achromatic cocktail
Sunday gray dry ices
and frappes effort

I can’t cotton up to Sunday gray
one move removed from elimination
my tactics without exit
your strategy, Sunday grace

Ground Crew

on an occasional Sunday only
due to dictates of my ambivert nature
I’ll amble down the avenue where I hope
to rendezvous with baseball buddies to
share a few…

Hey Barkeep!
Sprinkle the infield.

Easter Basket Case

In Easter Sunday new
knee-high to alter
on tip toe to offer
and all the while sinning
somehow on credit-
being born
past due.

But the real trespass
was that clip-on tie-
that suited my grandmother
while shaming her daughter
who whooped as she Windsored
then settled for four-in-hand
that served as a forget-me-knot
a rosette to original sin

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