august, on a
that exists at
so late a
sleep will be
a panicky Swiss
and a request
for Pad Thai.
small of it,
bent over in
and a gurgly
gut and a
reaches up for
the java on
twitter is for
with the stars
oh yeah, in
where was i
oh yeah, in
my ears are
parts of me
look nicer in
the glow of
in a flowery
those who died
- are still
and each of us
- needs a
you are angry
and one day,
the coffee on
my lips is
of my stomach
of eating the
from east to
west and non
east to non
and sixy seven
and getting a
and after all,
and after all
the songs were
every last sip
of port, and
i wake in this
the fish tank
is louder than
my Nabob and I
to do it again
how i now read
the mep thru
still feeling very fuckoffish, no amount of tepid-sweet
coffee is waking me.
mildly headachish, there's that stiff neck yet again, and a
tips my head to seek kleenex, waiting for the brainspace to
i'm trying to immerse myself into european thoughts
while hurrying, scurrying, and sitting very very still.
when you're twelve, you have to learn to cook.
your mother simply leaves you alone.
and there she goes, poots, today,
letting her thoughts filter
through a sieve
i have soft knees, was it arbonne.
i like what i wrote this week.
five more minutes.
else can i
out of this
fog, day by
hanging in my
of the eat
JUST FUCK OFF.
wow. that felt
grand. like as
if there is no
tree in the
end; we all
know what that
it's harder to
in love helps;
but looks like
we need more
through a list
of what builds
one day our
or they will
what gave my
if you post a
piece of shit
on my facebook
i just might
tell you it
i have that
less achy on a tuesday, buses roar
past, after the parc grass was mowed down and left to rot in
the august grey.
sometimes i live alone; thinking about interactions now, in
a house, it's a social setting, where we can choose
to be alone, or choose to interact. i think formalities
might be higher in other houses; they take energy;
why don't i like formalities? did it take me so long to
determine that they are fake? and how thick the line
between fake and not. more coffee please.
after 18 years of mEpping, finally someone wants to be
mentioned here. little does he know i rarely name names;
he'll have to read through these lines to find himself. he
was impressed with the length, in fact
it's not persistent if you need the interaction.
achy monday 8:03 AM
forcing a wakeup, poots sips,
through nausea, with a single goal.
many long hours of sleep, wasted, without a reason.
places to go, people to meet, fates to seal. move poots.
the clothing is hung in the blue room with care,
in hopes that Francesco soon will be there.
the groaning belly woke me up, early on a
the coffee pot ticks, i've silenced the fish.
an aching uncooked-enough-for-me hamburger,
from st jean, has brought me here earlier than planned.
even the most veiled prose cannot say what's
on my mind...
nice comforting deep thoughts of what i will tell her when
she is old enough;
i won't wish her to grow faster; remnants of my fourteen
year old; yes, get all this down poots
it's not prose but it's what you were thinking early in
the morning, exactly twenty seven years
after elvis died.
how many ways can you frame what is important?
she is living her life; as i was allowed to live mine;
each experience catapaulting learning; did anyone,
anywhere, ever notice that for me?
and when i read that back, it's way TMI.
i've done my cooking with cranberries, thank you very
i've done the cabot trail, and bought a fancy camera.
i took it to the north shores of France, and i've made
love in stockholm.
no, there was no internet back then, but the tree fell
so today's bookends are stinky sheets, a haircut, and the
most silently swimming fish you ever did see.
a luxurious cold breeze winds through the traffic on the
and into my window. the heat of the java, welcomed.
this fresh air, and the opportunity it evokes, only has ever
brought me back to los angeles,
since 1998. school beginnings fade in comparison. moving to
la was the atom bomb of new
school years and it hasn't left me yet.
and la is still talking about that precious, precious funny
man that we all never really realized we grew up with.
and we are now grown.
it's early for a change. thursday. quiet. coffee's done.
time to move.
japanese birthdays; lots of recordings; do i link to
the order in
which one does
how long it
why did i
run with it.
the short answer.
sits, in the
the middle of
"ready to love
is it time to
very late at
with the funky
asked me a
i woke her an
and ended up
much later at
for days i
any shorter an
and i suppose,
form, for why
answer is yes.
all the rest.
the universe unfolds as it should.
save and publish: hit record.
spend no money: hit record.
no dinner, no dime, no replies.
aside from what doesn't happen.
i don't hear anyone yelling 'Daddy'
he doesn't hear anyone yelling 'Mommy'
On A Hot
night and you
are far away:
some days my
love is putty
in your hands
some days a
most times, i
you're gone, i
smile, and my
love is like a
beyond me into
space to think
these are our summers: marked by
arrivals and departures: each one passing faster than the
children do the analysis, so we don't have to, anymore.
how do you write a summer, in a few lines,
how do you tell a story with few words
when i first saw her, the blond girl up the street, i kinda
new they should be friends.
why didn't i like anyone where there are pretty houses? or was
i don't think so, if i think back, they are more orderly
there, here, we are freer.
we belong here. i hope he does too.
we've come full circle: i've come
fractions of our lives, fractions of each other.
they say there's a book in me.
and, i'm a storyteller, he says.
when i was little, everyone was a storyteller.
now, there's only a few of us left.
the book is outlined, outlines of my life,
outlines that shape shift as it gets writ.
i apologize that your misery
and going to concerts of old men whose songs have worn out
little privacy, we demand.
chairs move loudly on the balcony above.
is she happy to signal she is alive, still.
or is she the friendly giant, reincarnated.
about late at
come to me.
he has hung up
he has done
i look forward
more than my
i need to move
now as much as
my body does
not want to.
as long as it
can, i guess i
the mEp ... my Electronic
pen . . . the 2014 edition and all of the contents therein are
copyright Poot's Place
1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004,
2005, 2006, 2007, 2008,2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013
That's ALOT of years! I GUESS I'M GETTING
All photography original unless otherwise