ten minutes unedited

saw the spout from afar, the sun glittering on the sea for the first time in weeks, whatever was off yesterday is erased in this drenched light, no sun for weeks, a humpback whale out in the harbor, see that spec? yes, larger than a bus. otherwise only overcast. light mist. now just light. fair light. clouds rolling in from juneau, whales underneath. a few boats. yesterday didn’t work out the way I planned. no microphones on account of whooping cough. different story. could’ve played unplugged and fought with the sounds from mainstage. navigational difficulties. directional sound. a busted up piano. cut fruit. green room wax hits. last piece of pizza. when are you playing? at the klondike, 4. we put our boots on and marched across the mud. carrying whiskey and a guitar. trim from an old hoodie duct taped as a strap. did it sound okay? are you sure? the first sunlight hit that guitar, those nylon strings shrink up and play detuned. the presence of a whale in the harbor means a pause in dredging up the small boat harbor. sunshine for all. I am having a good day. tell a joke and you’ve got em. says Jim. tell em’ a joke. we don’t need more news we need more humor. the whale breaths and leaves a rainbow in the sunshine for a moment. something like that into a microphone. punch line. the ferris wheel operator had a screw loose.

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No Washington Bats Feed on Blood

Two bats flew together over me in the garage as I spilled whiskey onto the carpet. This grey and thin carpet with the duct tape cross hatched over the burn holes from fallen hookah coals. One fell into my shoe once and burned its way out. “You make real friends quickly.” Settled into the self with a foxtrot. Finding a dried up pine needle in between my letters and numbers on my keyboard.

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new guitar strings

Whisky in the cider, firewater in the falls, cascading down along the railing, a thread of ideas discordant, I am sitting here, full of cider, thinking whisky, ate a couscous dish with tempeh and yellow peppers, looked at the cover of the shakespeare book I am supposed to read, and the shiny new strings on the guitar provide the greatest distraction out of everything, every possible productive act is undermined by a caustic loneliness, a mapmaking to and from everywhere, and learning the songs of heart and hope and the lyrics met with a phrenetic praise, a cool hearted and clarified mess of learning covers in order to win the hearts of women, who said it, there would be science without people restricting themselves from fun for the sake of artistic growth. enough for now I should read but will let myself molest guitar strings a bit longer instead. Should just watch a movie and play guitar and sleep and be depressed.