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Writing
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About MeI was born in obscurity
Outside a small country town’s limits In a plank shack I kept a few memories That come into my head That i still carry around That i visit now and then The dust and the cracks Filled everything Even the poor tamarisk trees Including spiders’ webs and smells of mustiness and dread I recall and i wonder now But just bits and pieces here and there None of them really made sense I was just there there in a fog of consciousness Just there I have quite a few more more memories of then I loved the smell of crayons mixed with modeling clay Along with drawing paper The cream brown kind With its distinct rustic scent Craving to be used for drawing upon Ruled white paper stayed in the teacher’s vault Kept for special purposes For each one of our own personal use A plastic cylindrical Lindy brand pen With a tiny white seal A ball on its nose Stamped on its side Its mark, a seal chrome pocket clip For writing in cursive writing Exuding its cargo of precious blue ink That smelled like rare, exotic tincture As manuscript flowed from its wonderful tip These blends of things Inspired my thoughts And stayed with me to the reading of books Pages thereof glossy and thick Pastel faces of kids and their pets 50’s innocence, “of run Spot run!” Bound with rough texture of cloth Stretched and dyed with edges thick i grew up along with these To now make a wave of nostalgia deep Remembering how i Walked down the library at lunch While the rest played at recess I buried in books Forgetting the dust and the cracks And squalor of my childhood squalor and shack As i think back And smelled deeply the dream The intoxicating waft of pens papers and books |