Last Call

At 11:45 I poured my last cup of coffee and promised myself I wouldn't make more.

I am honest to a fault, keep promises if there's any way possible, so here I sit at 12:30, staring at an empty cup and thinking how I need to make another pot. The thing is, I'm exhausted, I'm so tired I can't even read poetry, let alone interpret it. I've been at another board started by a fellow conspirator, doing my best to get in at the start of a new seemingly good thing. Cher is one of those people... you know the type, I've barely spoken to her, nothing more than a few comments on each other's galleries. Her poetry is more romantic than I typically like, but its her. She is so talented and elegant. Elegant, odd choice of words I think for someone I've barely spoken to. It's the truth none the less.

She's just one of those people who has the personality that saps you of any desire to resist. I don't mean that she's pushy or manipulative, couldn't be further from it - she's just the type that's too sweet to say no to. I've just ordered her chapbook - something I've never done before. There's something about her work that is just tranquil and beautiful. I'm sure the chapbook will be too.

Anyway, it's going on 1am, and I'm pretty sure I should go to bed, but somewhere between meatball subs and chocolate cake and ice cream, my stomach decided to revolt, and who can sleep with their stomach in a knot? I came here to write, freewrite, splurt something out. See I had this idea last night for a poem based on a Bukowski poem (again) but it disappeared into the ether and it won't come when I call it. Guess I should have given it a name when I had the chance.

So, more coffee? No, more cake? Hell no. . . more poetry - ugh, I can't.

Guess I'll go pretend I'm watching TV or something. Wish we still had a TV in my bedroom. . .