On the devil’s dance floor, or not, I am just complaining about other-wheres. We are all different I yell out of a bad dream. Our love will last like our songs. The verses were each once made live outside, written down, but the head must be held just so. The fingers brush light against the chin, the elbow barely touching the surface of the well worn wood of the desktop. The paragraphs of the ecosphere are overcast with the threat to lose light unless I pay someone’s, anyone’s light bill. The darker plane is where poets prefer to float. This is wisdom. In the literary mode, plants are a vegetable garden in a pocket. Scat rain! Rain scat! Red as overdue rent, I bake bread late and eat in the morning. Yes, that is what writing is like; a huge repeat, like sunrise, like the rhetorical spiel, the prosody of betimes. The dough must be tough. Reverence gets up, dusts off his breeches, aims until the headless horseman shows up and is shot. This empty page of a brain is secret seen only in sunshine set or at rain stops. The manuscript should look like today, small and barely paying attention, or smiling like a vampire whistling a snappy tune. Death rhythm or life rhythm, I paint it with words mostly so as not to disturb your rest come night. Still as yet, it is good to visit other writers who talk of grandchildren and contemplate peacock patterns in the carpet on Sunday morning.