Amigo’s, I know it has been months, an unforgivable amount of time since I have posted anything amongst these pages. It’s been a long dry spell. I aim to force these things as the long hot days of summer push themselves forward. I hope to start forcing my way through Muskrat and transcribing its pages onto the interweb. I Hope to offer you new poems and amblings and brain farts over the summer. Until then, here is something simple, a few paragraphs, one new, one found in my cardboard box of typewritten pages from last year.
The black silhouettes of a startled flock of birds on grey asphalt, early morning commutes from telephone line to telephone line. Telephone line black bird silhouettes framing bicyclists in vintage frames of telephone wires in an era of online messages and phones meant for anything except talking. Muskrat doesn’t do much talking in person much less over telephones these days, mumbles and stumbles over his words fine tuning them in conversations in his head he never manages to convert into appropriate gram to cup, mouth to ear ratios in face to face interactions.
There is an Old Weller Whiskey bottle half empty and collecting dust in the back recesses of Muskrat’s Denver memories. It sits on a drafting table surrounded by dead roses and unfinished art projects, a pen and ink portrait of Willie Nelson, bathroom comics, instructions for flushing grey water toilets and a southwest green chili cookbook. A few years and a few hundred miles southbound, Smokey Robinson is singing over coffee shop airwaves and Muskrat is digging under dead snow pea vines. Underneath a green candle is the first and final page of a scribbled attempt at a garden journal. Over the Sandia’s and south towards the Manzano Mountains black rain clouds are gathering, skirting the issue and teasing the metro area with a light smell of rain filtering in through the swamp coolers.
Until next time, be safe, ride free, solidarity in struggle and dreaming.
And dear dear Mink, I promise a full blog letter soon.