Poets under cover

The Prozac Mountain Boys played at Honey Moon last night, a little alley cabaret that reminded Michael of New York and me of Denver in the ’70s.  Arielle Luckman, in town from Chicago, joined in the toe tapping tunes on her fiddle.  I eased up to the bar with a glass of pull-your-own water, very Bellingham, and settled on a hardwood stool.

Bluegrass with a bit of Connie Francis and Bob Dylan on the side.  Standing room only.  A tastefully decorated Christmas tree hung upside down from the high ceiling. 

Inebriated college students, old and new hippies, a retired border worker, a psycho therapist, a tarot reader, a geologist were among the few I watched and talked to as the evening bubbled along.  AND a poet and publisher.

My focus for 2012 is to be back in print.  A most auspicious outing.

The Muse mumbles after midnight

Just loud enough to fend off Dreamtime.

I roll to my right side, settle the covers below my chin, listen for the ancient voice of Owl.

Shift to the other side.  Think about publishing a chap book, getting the novel into your hands, making an author’s trailer.

Sometime after 4 AM, I feel for my journal, pad into the bathroom, rummage for the flashlight, let the poem boil over in uneven words.