Some Commotion

January 10, 2012 2:47:18 AM CST

Some kind of commotion. Rabid coons playing king of the compost pile, or something. Enough to get me up and throw some rocks. When your adrenaline stirs at three in the morning, the night is lost. I resurrect a fire from a hand-full of coals, hang around the stove, reading an essay about Picasso and Braque. Cubism was all about the space between things. For a long time I look at Picasso's Les Demoiselles d' Avignon. Iconic. One of the greatest paintings ever. Originally he was going to call it "The Avignon Brothel", those harpies, rip your heart out and eat it raw. I finally drift over to the computer. I hadn't even turned it on, it was so far away, and I was busy, reading, at the other side of the room. Everything, really, is just an excuse for getting another drink and rolling a smoke. I consider it a good evening if I can enjamb a particular verb against a specific noun. A ringing in my ears. Not nothing, palpable. Did someone die? a butterfly give up the ghost in Australia? someone trying to tell me something? I go sit in my tattered writing chair and start a post to you, I don't know what else to do. It's how I respond to circumstance. Two coons singing in the dead of night. Doesn't mean anything, but it signifies, how's that new baby?