829 Cass Street apt. 32

(lately-

these posts seem to be a long letter im constantly

and continually writing to you.

-ugh)

Kitchen window open
perched like a yellow bird
on my red stool
in a blue t-shirt
looking at the same buildings
or the B W checkered floor
or the paper bag(s) filled with garbage
or the dishes in my sink
or the bills on the fridge
or the curtians,
my phone,
the open cabinets,
thinking about recipes
peanut butter cookies
 (or)
Christmas lights on
Glasses of (contaminated) water,
cups of (who knows how old) coffee,
Papers and pencils,
gum eraser, roll of tap, scissors,
your guitar case(s),
your mic stands,
your socks and hat and electric razor,
raw canvas wrapped around stretcher bars,
unfinished watercolors,
paintings leaning up against the walls.
I am on my belly on the rug in my living room.

 88.9 radio hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmin'
 rain and wet tires and the baritone of my fridge.

jus sayin/jus-so ya know: i friken love my quiet little life.