With a Flowing Hand

It’s time to write of unnecessary things, to imagine alternative endings to journeys not taken. This stained coffee mug that nudges my elbow like a muddy bible; it has not been washed for 2 days but I still read it faithfully, return to it, until sufficiently caffeinated with a burning desire, to crash here on the edge of some other variable reality. It’s time to write of bits of string, one small fake discolored Swiss Army knife, a lucky pebble that has brought me nothing but its own preordained boredom. No, why should I? String, knife and stone have had nothing good to say about me for years. This morning, a little later on, I might write of more back-of-the-draw stuff, maybe pen alternative beginnings in a flowing hand, or redraw the landscape of my youth snipping and pasting in a cast of characters that exited my mind a thousand years ago, but for now, only coffee stains read me as I drink-in this unnecessary moment (which I have to mention, seriously lacks any aspect of Zen or any other kind of poetic wishful thinking - at all). For the time being, I am this being who signs his name in a muggy mug with a flourishing shadow ink.