

direction.direction
sitting in the gravel he
coddles a cigarette to light it; sheltering it from the wind.
his hair, matted from his sporadic sleep, stands proudly in directions unmapped.
with his second Sunday
morning cigarette he tries to gather his thoughts, much like a young boy would gather baby chicks: running in circles, stomping, suddenly, to scare them in the right direction.
failing, he lights his third.
.
you check out the peace nook much? i've semi-abandoned my commitment to them since a new warehouse job, but since quitting the other job i'll be doing downtown stuff again. perhaps the artisan's open-mic nights, i need to remember that poetry exists.
--
on the zipupside, the spin cycle works.
--
hello, Philo.
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