#873 teachers teach, painters paint, and writers write

writing is not about waiting for a muse to visit,
but about what you do while waiting for the visit
writing is putting letters together,
and good writing is re-writing those letters,
in head or on paper
i have 26 tools in my writers tool kit,
some are used more often,
others for precision work
but that's all it is:
26 letters, discipline, and doing it

#872 the school of Mr. Hathaway

i ignored her larger-than-life life
assuming no talent lived there
but then came her death,
larger than her life
and, as all too often
i found her talent and her soul
through her death
and still i wonder
what tortures these souls

#871 human, being

not self-criticizing
not complaining
not talking over others

not thinking ahead
not planning
not even reflecting

just sitting
breathing
being

#870 dos cervezas por favor

his skin is dark, from centuries of sun
his language makes a doctor's prescription musical
he throws out more food in a day than his large, young family will see in a month
he smiles and speeds and sweats
smiles when watched, because it pays 150 pesos a day
smiles when alone, because he is among the lucky

#869 bling

his favourite colour is brown
      calming, peaceful, relaxing, practical
      maybe even boring
and these are what he vows to her

her favourite is a crazy aqua-turqoise
      fun, breathtaking, bright, full of life
      opposite of boring
and these are the things he vows to appreciate in her

#868 memory upon memory

six of them all on one couch
the memory of the last time and
the memory of the picture, blend
altering truth, updating it
as another memory is snapped, another memory built

#867 the calendar hanging from the nail on the kitchen wall

searching for the good ol' days
in overpriced meals and expensive alcohol
days we did not know were good ol' days
until they were disposed of
along with the calendars in which they were blocked and recorded

time is a depressing friend
and depression is the sound of fear winning
the fear our best days are our yesterdays
the fear we are living a drawn out denouement 

#866 i get around town

i drive, the gas tank full, mine empty
the bobble-head terrier mocks me from my dashboard
my speed is going up
my life is going down
100% tread left on my tires
0% for me, wires poking through rubber
the radio is silent
my thoughts scream blind spots are clear
but these objects in the mirror, are closer than they appear

#865 "sat on a fence but it don't work"

the belt tightens around my chest
as demands pile with to-do lists on scrap-bits of paper
rescued from the recycle bin
red ink, blue ink, graphite
these are my bosses
and that's the last belt-notch

#864 Deadly Crash at 4th Street and 1st

even though Smalltown was a small town indeed then
Mr. Morton and Mr. Gregors owned similar businesses, competitors fierce
they were friends as kids but that went down one Saturday evening
a misunderstanding involving a missed curfew, and a sister full of teenage tears

now one Tuesday, each drove his black car for work
with passengers in the back, more silent than a ride in a music-less elevator
from North and from East, both men approached one 4-way stop
each thinking i'll beat that jerk
years of anger came down on their accelerators

before the sounds of metal and glass hit the intersection of 4th Street and 1st
Morton was silent and Gregors let go a string of reflexive curses
and that is Smalltownville's story, of the crash of two hearses

#863 clanched fists and shallow breaths

here's to anger
for your motivation
for your help in stopping the unacceptable things in this world
here's to anger
for speaking up
for action
for the energy you create
physical, spiritual, emotional

#862 dad's love

short grass and a clean car
baseball games on tv
lawn games and car-chats

#861 picking the melody

fretting away our frets
stress leaves in soundwaves
turning into good memories
changing chords and outlooks
tuning up and tuning in

#860 helmets are mandatory

there is no inspiration for life any strong than death
yet we squirm to talk about it
death
death
death

our fear of death
has grown into a fear of age
and now, with policies and safety
with helmets and seatbelts
we are growing a fear of life, of living

#859 a snapshot

old pictures deceive
confusing one generation with the next
playing tricks on my present
adjusting and influencing my past

and now
instead of having a few treasured moments
we have a hundred pictures a month that count for nothing
only filling up memory not my own

#858 mountains

what was once a mountain
is now a smooth wrinkle in the land
coming east to mountains
like visiting your kindergarten school for sky-high coathooks
these hills' beauty demand there own awe
but for height these eyes have new perspective

#857 memories and old underwear

i will not throw them out
they are old and tattered
worn and frayed
unattractive and ugly to some
but they are mine
i cannot throw them out
someday i might lose them
but i cannot throw them out