August 23, 2020

The birthday of Poetry for me. Fifty-four years a poet. The bones chill writing the words. Yet, it kept me busy. It gave me a name and a destination.

Started looking seriously online for independent publishers for my rout of books. Every one I’ve hit so far has said “Not accepting submissions at this time. . . taking a hiatus. . .  “

 Plowing through an old essay I found another reference to this house before I lived in it: I walked down Lakeshore Drive to the video store for videos. I could see the video store from my window but for a few things in the way. One house blocking the way is empty but for the periodic appearance of the realtor and prospective buyers.  The realtor has kept the lawn clipped, but not otherwise looked very deep or taken meet measures. The wild clematis all but devours lawn and hedge and porch pillar, beautiful,  a sure sign of neglect. It looks like the house is being swallowed by sea-foam. Anyone with a sense of the life of wild things will smell something wrong. A man was murdered in this house. That’s why they can’t sell it. A father shot a grown son, as sometimes happens. In the struggle between the old lion and the young lion for rulership of the pride, the old one sometimes wins. The wild clematis thinks it was called to cover everything up.