honeydunce

You know times are changing when you glance at a clock telling “1:50am” and you feel every bit your age/that you should’ve been in bed hours upon hours ago but you aren’t. You’re just leaving a poetry gig and feeling good about the fact that 95% of the readers were unfamiliar territory to you, and all inspiring. Sipping a shot of tequila between slugs of coffee, limes on toothpicks. In a word or two, I’m tired. No worries, it’s a good kind. Just received a couple beats in my inbox and I’m going to try to write to at least one of them. The good feeling is: the words never stop. I can be miles and light years and hours and ages away from anything yet here I am, spilling. The usual. The never stop. The what-keeps-me-going.

I dedicated my set to one person tonight, and they do not know it, but I hope they do. By this at least I put the words out there into the atmosphere, for them, nothing attached but heart and hope and support. These are strange days. I aim to make them stranger by pushing a dedication out into the intricate webbing of microphone, hoping that maybe some unspecified wind caught word of it, carried those things past the about-to-bust magnolia tree outside the Hazlett, to the just booming one outside a place in a neighborhood some minutes away. This one is outside a window where someone dear sleeps and works and creates and thinks. Tonight’s work dedicated to that process, and progress. Despite the clock gaining closer to the 1am mark, I read with an extra oomph and fever for that cause tonight.That is all. Going to bed.