a writer writes

without a pen

walking on

wind and sand

once upon a

stop he said

as thoughts

got out of hand

are we gonna walkabout?

or whaddaya wanna write about?

i want to write about etcetera

but first i need to stop and rest

i want to think before i step

give each syllable my best

i want to feel each movement

in every multi verse

meaning here i must sit still

and sitting still traverse

i only want right now

to be a sentence in a paragraph

to be the space between the words

bringing forever to an epitaph

or as precisely in 6 words

i want to sum it up like him

my dear old friend Joe Baum, who

"Walked on water. Could not swim."

Oh to whisper it all away

every word and worldly hassle

to smile at the end of days

"As a child with a sandcastle."

or even to lose myself in this

to not be wanting that

not standing for one thing

nor wearing any hat

nor aspiring to this

or even remembering here

(eventually the know and yes

of all things disappear)

sitting nowhere now

yet turning to my west

this writer turns 3rd person

putting i to rest

now a playful unknown soulja

like a buddhist vacuum cleaner

comes with no attachments

and cuts into the dance

Her dance

Her cadence

Her movement

Her electric sliding vow

Her jazzy only truth is now

Her song of why and how

and now this man

(who is This Man writing)

this man who comes walking in

beginning the beguine!

turns out

this man

is Her

Walkman

of course she turns him on

suddenly they are dancing

waltzing now and for all time

to their favourite song

together they will tango

until the end of days

or at least until they jitterbug

their own separate ways

though their song a story never-ending

though he loves her beyond all doubt

just as he walked in one day

one night he walked out

a writer writes

and so this man who

is This man who

writes this

walks

and writes

and walks

and writes

and walks

and writes

and walks

and sometimes this man sits

sometimes this man stands

sometimes he still dances

when things get out of hand

and sometimes this man

(who is this too you man)

tail-walks like a steelhead trout

en route to his ocean

and sometimes this man

(who is too you woman)

writes like that woman who is too

starved for touch en route to her love potion

walk on