PO Box Nowhere

He struggled his eyes open, gently pulling his lashes.  Dear, sweet blessed fucking land. He massaged his eyes with bath-tub wrinkled fingers. His second thought was rolling Jimmy, last night the last passenger in the boat, overboard and he’d felt only relief.  Then he’d stretched his body into an X, and now, here.

Sun high, cheek against sand, he watched a coconut zigzag sea-ward, stopped short of its course by island debris. Clothes stiff with salt, he sat up, groaning. The sea broke and pulled and broke. He croaked out a laugh.  He was alone. He tried some scales. Mi mi mi miiii mi mi miiii. Was he alone? Could he live on an island alone? He didn’t even have a mailbox.

Now That I’m Old

i know poets that became poets

to work with despair, one so big

they’re lucky to find themselves

in the same room with it.

 

the same room with it at

dark, with heavy curtains,

or light, too much light, and spotless.

they’d die happy then

 

to say all is forgiven,

and if they’re really brave

they could tell the truth,

that they were so small.

That sound? It was my head clunking onto the keyboard.

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I’m one little lonely writer.

And my cat is lonely, crying, because I’m too busy spinning my wheels here to walk over there. Sorry, baby, Mommy is busy driving herself crazy. I’m pulled in too many different directions, as if drawn and about to be quartered. I don’t know: late life ADD? Jesus, I’ve gotta start making lists.

Anyway. Since I’m not doing NaNo this year (which I’m more than cool with and hats off to those that are – I personally didn’t feel like a sustained dose of self-loathing was exactly what I needed right now) but still want to be Uber-goober productive in any writerish ways I can, I thought one thing I could do is sign up for a few of those freelance writing sites like Upwork, Guru, and Textbroker.  Which is great, great. Except this morning I was clumsy, and accidentally bid on a job for writing blog articles about software. I saw the keyword, software, just as I hit send, and my bid flew gaily off to its destination.

Shit. Because sure of course haha I have software articles I’ve written lying around all over the place, tons, yeah. No.

Basically I can say hello world in CSS. A few years ago I took a semester in starter code at the community college then slowly forgot most of it. So yes, I’m familiar with code. I can actually make a link from scratch.

*holds hand out to examine invisible diamond ring*

So code and I, we’ve kissed, okay, but we’ve never actually done it. Jesus.

After my unqualified bid sailed away I consoled myself with the knowledge that there were thousands of infinitely more qualified writers than myself. I barely know the difference between lie and lay, much less posses the knowledge to write a software article, and really, what were the chances she’d respond to my bid? I’d never hear from her.

But she responded, this nice woman, asking for writing samples, of software articles. Written by me.

. . . . .

. . . . .

I broke up with Twitter this morning. Does that count?

***

But hey, on the other hand, last night just after I’d turned out all the lights, head on pillow line by line this sweet haiku drifted into my head. I liked it. It wasn’t exceptional, but it made me happy enough that I thought I’d remember it this morning. NO OF COURSE I DIDN’T REMEMBER IT. I hunted around in my head a bit, something about love, but it was gone.

And the good news is that I didn’t even mildly freak out. I wasn’t overjoyed, but I just knew, I finally knew-knew that I knew (sorry) that I will never have a dearth of material. That there’s always more where that came haiku came from. I will never run out.

Ah… Progress.