I revise

The hardened hand is my
hardened hand.

Where did I put it?
I put it in the freezer
where it froze on the Stoli.

I put it in a hole
up on Naticook Lake

past a frozen scrim
which broke my skin

and drew blood
as I drew out
the perch.

Every road in this town is a
cooling board for dreams
that don't die.

Ghosts everywhere
remain, they live
and breathe and
walk
like men.

They sing like wires
in the winter
wind.

I can't stop
listening.

I will do
thier bidding.

The Chinese bartender
slips the info to me,
scrawled on a
small square napkin:

All your gone friends
are imaginary and
New York City
is forever hell.

I said, OK, sir.
Now another Fogcutter,
por favor,

I've many miles to go
and it's a far cry
till dark.

raw times is good times

driving through these towns:
scouring my hidden mind for raw material
listening to Axis: Bold As Love by Saint Jimi Hendrix
deciding that I'll treat 36 as an extension of 35
affirming that this late bloomer is in bloom
doing not trying
committing to playing even more
shedding all past defeats: they are not entities anymore
driving through these towns
these blogs was ever named Extemporaneo
you have no idea how much material is here that is raw
there is no audience here but me
and this is as it should be
I need a real domain
I am that real domain
this is my year
this is my year