Here I am in the morning sitting leftward spine curled in a swivel chair typing avoiding. The work, that is, I'm avoiding it. Here with the computer age equivalent of a tiny leather fake crocodile narrow lined with no dates pocket notebook, scribbling in tiny type of ink from a rounded tin nibbed fountain pen in sweat greased fingers. Cry out, fingers, as I lean into you and strike these plastic letters like Bukowski advised in the title of a book of poetry I saw once while acquiring another rough paper board bound paperback well glued floppy bright colored big lettered new poems volume of his. The other day. In a well known bookstore, while drinking one oz. of free complimentary may I please entice you to spend money at our in house coffee shop strangely (syrup) flavored latte or mocha or whatever in a tiny cup that could not possibly have been Dixie, waxed, or reminiscent of the bright wide avenues of libraries in childhood with books so wide as to be hard to hold all around amongst gigantic comfortable chairs, when in fact I was looking–I swear–for a volume on tensor analysis, I came across the poetry section which I like to visit sometimes when I am waiting for the mall shops to open at the shopping mall two blocks down from this one. I can't wait for LED lighting to become a reality even if I do have to pay U.S.$50 per bulb just because they are more efficient still than flourescents and do not have the drawback of buzzing, which is what I'm hearing underneath the sad morning music I put on to get in the mood to work when it is a dreary Saturday or Sunday or Thursday and I must study and memorize something or else compose something or evaluate something and need to be appropriately somber instead of stripping down to my skivvies and running manic wet through the rain while my soles are torn on concrete sidewalks. Today, I need to write a creative composition of not more than 500 words.


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