Ruminations on Simply Being

There are incomplete charcoal fingerprints everywhere
I’ve been today
the still scarlet i-pod has now a gray click
wheel I enjoy
its condition, (it doesn’t have to look as if I care
for you anymore.) There are clumsy
secrets to be had in the hills of dynamite
dislocation tonight. I’m content sitting out

This night,
we are the bookstore’s least favorite
customers staying for an hour point
five and reading not buying just absorbing new
book smell
I spill coffee in the poetry section and no
one sees except O’hara and Bukowski
and Frost misplaced by Bishop but they are
safe from Seattle’s Best damage.

O’hara open in left hand makes me fall for
New York again as if I needed
a poem to stumble
I have to put him down before my silly dreams
skip to sprint.

We both end up in the self
help section where spirituality and memoirs seem to
take turns by row not perplexing us
it’s sort of who we are save room for
drifter definition I’ve become my father
I notice in my habit of clutching
notebooks and compulsively pounding flimsy keyboard keys to
hear in the air what I'm thinking
and I think he knew it all along
comparing creative processes of songs on the
radio behind red lights, white ones to the
side, the way home, I don’t mind this inherited old
soul I don’t mind
at all.