it’s a strange night lying back on the bed like this trying to read while my wife is sleeping, and the cats are sleeping, and the whole world, for that matter, is sleeping and leaving me to myself, alone. left alone, sad ideas, strong ideas, take birth revolutionizing my self-center, thanks alone to this book in my cold hands.
the way the author pushes the ink through the pages, I accustom my eye to the flow and I can go faster, cover more ground. the more sense it all makes to me the deeper I go. as I read I write out in my head my own paragraphs.
this man, the author, is my friend – I will defend him for all the things he’s shown me. I want to search down people like this and share with them some winter quality Philadelphia.
BGKPOETRY.COM 