back to the great white north
tip-a-tapping on my iPod in front of the sweeping panorama of the Colorado Rockies from the terminal in the Springs
a couple weeks of goodness behind me
words written down
pulled like a lifevest around the chest
consumed and digested like one hundred cups of coffee
still amazed how one phrase spoken hundreds of years ago by a person I’ve never met yet know
can lift me
send me spinning
rambling and reading
coagulating and bleeding
giving and needing
oh the depths and shallows of terminal thought
oh the dangers of portable electonic devices
of spontaneous rendezvous with tanning beds in the cold
of wearing tweed on any occasion
of flying to and
away from home
LIKE one hundred cups of coffee? You DID digest one hundred cups of coffee. No simile needed.
here’s to a man who, when sick of coffee shops and barren cold, dives into tanning beds and is buried under sand from the stream bed
you are a beautiful writer.