Ahh, the compulsion to keep on blogging, it's strange...

The other day I started re-reading a whole bunch of my *paper journals* from my mid-twenties. I've been compulsively keeping journals for around thirty years now, wow...

Anyway, in the middle of all this very depressed whining, and some quirky anecdotes, and a lot of witty drawings and doodles that I'd like to somehow re-use in an art project, there were a couple of poems that made me chuckle out loud. Here's one:

Poem

It's true.
I'm alone.
But I will not
write a
bad poem.

I will try
to describe
the night:
flash of --
white
(a runner).
2nd cup
(of coffee).
Astor Place
(coffee shop).

Here's another; again, I chuckled when I read this:

Buster

Buster the cat
was a bad cat.
He ate things
ripped things
+ broke things.
He made Andrea
sneeze; he
meowed at 6 a.m.
and he chewed
plants. These
were but a few
of his many
faults.

And yet, he
was cute
when he was asleep,
curled in a
"ball," his little eyes
closed + paws tucked under
his chin,
and so I kept
him + fed him
Beef + Liver Platter, or
Sliced Beef in Bite-Sized Chunks.


Maybe you had to be there. In my brain.