Ok, it took some time to get back. Not having a portable typewriter has paralyzed me. I’m a zombie. I can think, but can’t say the words, just moan something like ….. braaaaaaiiins….
I can’t write with my digits in rigor.
Shirley Jackson got me out of my funk. Just read “Let Me Tell You”. Right from the first story, “Paranoid”, my joints unlocked. I could finally smile (ever see a zombie smile?).
I still need my Rocket, or my Remington Noiseless 8 (it’s nearly a portable), by I’m s\thawing enought to use this already nearly obsolete plastic thing I sometimes call thedistractomatic.
Back to poetry. Poetry, the word, is just a word. Like anything, we can change the name if the name doesn’t sound right in your gearbox. Hell, words are turds, Changing the name does nothing to change IT. Even if it is a turd a rose needs it to grow. Not the other way around. If I could change names anywhere I could, I would switch the words poetry and gelatto. Not bad. I would like some more delicious poetry, please. I love it with some cool gelatto.
Anyways, hello again.
Onyx typer 