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Subject Twelve

I watch as he whiters
Growing as grey and cold as the concrete cell he calls home.
The same stagnant air circulating through his collapsing lungs. 
Recycled, artificial, empty
The same stagnant thoughts circulating through his decaying mind. Recycled, artificial, empty
I watch as I whiters.
Growing as cold and grey as the concrete cell I call home.
The same ephemeral dream filling my vacant life.
Recycled, artificial, empty.
Decaying, collapsing, breaking.

California thunder storms are perfect for coffee.
In the words of the dear Agent Dale Cooper:
You know, this is - excuse me - a damn fine cup of coffee.”

Isolation can put a gun in your hand, but a coffee mug fits oh so much better….

After all a good cup of coffee is a good friend.

Writer’s Block

I sleep in too late.
I don’t write enough.
I stay up too late.
I don’t write enough.
I write naked.
Still, I don’t write enough.