The rolltop desk is still giving up it`s treasures. Man, how many cuby-holes can one desk have? I`ve found a whole pile of mint tins and those round, flat, snuf cans, all stuffed full of wrinkly, old, scraps of paper, covered with poems. And not just poems but ones made up on the road and dragged all over before they ended up here. I`m sure some of them go with the stories, but which ones goes with which I`m not sure I`ll ever figure out. These seem even more personal than the stories and at first I was a little embarrassed to be draggin em all out, but this is my story. I don`t have to like it, but it feels like I should at least give it a chance.
I may come back to them later, but for now I`m only going to share my favorite one.
I met a man while walking,
he was being enigmatic.
But I was beaming clear and pure
ignoring all the static.
Then he sang an invocation
in a voice so clear and high,
"May the guides always be with you
and I hope you never die."