I reached for a guitar and wrote a poem. The canvas cried for its cover and my pen told how it hungered and what it wished to be. My flats are sharp and my sharps just don’t cut it. My words sing though. Sing right from me into you and name your tune. My art crosses my own darkness, lights out, and finds friends I may never get to meet. “Me, too” people. They see themselves in me and don’t have to set eyes on me. Here I am. Lettering in life. Lettering life. Letters, notes, books in various stages of birth, rants, raves, waves, wakes, and shimmy-shimmy-coco-pop.
Don’t believe me? Try and deny that I moved your thoughts. Hum along with me. I am in your crook and nanny as sure as a crooked nanny, Ed Burns, Annette, and let’s be frank…..you like it.
Someone else can teach the world to sing. I write. You read. That’s enough for me.
Strumming and drumming…..I just keep ‘em coming. It rocks me. Its how I roll. It’s the music in my soul. It makes me whole. Holy, Holy, Holy. Once more. From the top. Maybe the bottom. La-La-La-Land of a thousand ways to say something. Anything. As long as it matters. As long as I am matter. As long as I have the energy. Even longer. Longer than forever is a long, long time….except when forever is yesterday and tomorrow is now and that might be sooner than we think.
At no time did my fingers leave my hand. Stuck my finger in the dyke and all hell broke loose. Hell hath no fury like a woe, man. Woe. Woe sucks. Let’s sing the blues and paint the town read.
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