starlit beacons at the edge of conciousness
The sheltering body of the slowly spinning earth gradually sheds it's frosty blankets as the universe reaches down an emerald velvet thumb and seeds the spring rains with the spark of the living. The winds roll in softly, finding their way through the buds of still unopened flowers and eyes now fresh with promises of new beginnings. The rains,
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Every now and then I get the strange notion that I'd like to do something cheesy like beat poetry or some kind of poetry chapbook or something.
But I dunno.
I'm stymied by the obvious fact that I'm no Moore, or Shelley, or Byron. I suppose I'm still more or less happy with some of my more recent stuff, but it's a presonal kind of heppiness, the kind of happiness that comes from knowing that you've written something that is powerful for you (but not necessarily empirically worthwhile).
That and I tend to think of it as "not lucrative" as in something that I do when I can find the time and hide away on town cocktail napkins or random sheets of 0.99$ notepads while I'm walking down the street looking in random shop windows.
It's the same for my weird organic abstract art/doodle things. It's like I think of a lot of it as stuff that's kind of so intrinsically me that I can't imagine other people wanting to look at/listen to/read
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