writ

as the channel will swerve thoughts to paper
writ, i write
but in this mound of viral virtual communication
i type
am i a typist or writer still?
my charms evolve in foreign, uniform script.

tweens in tight blue jeans and black;
girls watching, alone, on park benches
staring into the distant inspiration
for the next line.
it is off of reality that this canvas comes
recycled through scrutiny.

moleskins crinkle with last minute forget-me-nots;
envelopes lick the blessings of love
and vows are memorized, meaning frozen.
where do you put your vice?
this box is taped and inside writhes a fury
reptilian.

the road is sandy long and moments are too rich to not testify.
this is my vintage vehicle
and the juice must be such
the fumes are dark, oaky vanilla
with overtones of cracked sanity.
its wonderful to meet you.