i sit here, notebook within reach, 
facinated with nothing 
in particular. 
and there is nothing sacred in this, 
no notable skill, the sole flutter 
of peril: a graceless, 
	full-mouthed bravo.

further more, the thoughts behind 
this are highly over-rated,
black on white written on paper, 
a journal entry, 
	or perhaps---a mere note.

my hands are not seasoned
nor coiled in twine; my body is subtle, 
verging on the edge, where no laws 
have been broken; 
when ideas pebble, 
the eager pen strokes; 
	reader, i adore you.

and with no harbored blush, 
i will wait and write on western coves, 
seeking sun in an uneventful shade, 
replacing pages torn, with blisters 
	of ink and nothingness.