Allen Ginsberg stares at you from the page, those cocker spaniel eyes but always an emphasis on the cock, it's a life of contradictions. Inside your apartment, the October sun beams warmth onto your skin but along the river the wind was bitingly cold. You read a children's book and compare notes, compare turns of phrase, compare daydreams, and somehow do not come up short, it's all surprising. In the early morning, the little dog jumps up on the bed and nestles in to a warm nook along my side, it's another day of silence, of forgetting about time, of sinking into whatever words concoct themselves at the nape of my neck. You tell her it's too soon to hope, but the gears warm up without your input, and you do not stop them. We all have to train so that one day when we need the muscle, it will do what it's supposed to.
October stretches inside you. Says here is a moment that is not too hot, not too cold, here is a moment that is just right. You sit down at the typewriter and smile at its blank space. Feel invincible at the top of its page.
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