View From My Window

My Mind Is In the Gutter

Coffee is burning on the stove.  I have not slept
in days.  Jeremy, the bartender,
was winking at me last night
at the club- I did not notice until after midnight because
I was too busy writing in my notebook.  It is a nice
little notebook, one I found tucked in a street gutter
and thought it was a bar of gold.  I write in my notebook every day,
but no one knows what it is written in it,
for I keep even that a secret.  
Not even my wife,
not even my children.  One day, I decided
to just stop writing, and buried the book under
the magic tree in my backyard.  
I say it is magic,
because every day it bears different fruit:  one day
its branches will hold bananas, the next day oranges.
I never have to go to the market place again,
though I do sometimes anyway, because my ideas
always just, you know, plop in my lap, and I can't
ask for them the way you might ask for bread.  
They have to be written or
else I'll go mad; otherwise it won't make sense.
Not like I do anyway.  Not like any of us do.



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My Mind Is In the Gutter

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