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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

(a concert for) the saints in our pockets

girls can be pirates

(pictures of) an Exile on Main Street

I am happy the world is not flying and I am happy it is back to great

all the pretty little horses (put your hand in mine)

the old wound

the night of the impossible

of cosmonauts and blind saints

blindness and insight

A lie (running to go nowhere)

coins, keys, clouds

like children

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