167/365 - 171/365

Still fighting off seasonal sinus issues—after two or three weeks of a slow recovery, I took an extra dosage of cold remedy medication. Within fifteen minutes the dose settles heavy into my system, drying out my nose and ears—but leaving a dull hum in my head.

Would like to work on my Spanish poem, but my comprehension lowers into instinctual patterns. Common actions easiest to recall.

Received another rejection—so promptly sent out five free verses to a new on line journal. Feel somewhat better. Positive action out of negative. Although finishing a poem perhaps would promote a more uplifting feeling.

Milkweed stalk as brush for abstractions and textured lines—outer edges contours use micron pens for tighter details

Ricky gives me three words at random for poem:
camisa, tabillero, portada. Still toying with possible applications—a listing would be the typical expectation.

Cold medication
leaves me in a heavy fog.
You confess the same.

Burdened by flowers
a dilapidated cross
leans by the road side.

For some unknowable reason I always plant the moon in my verses, a persistent white blooming, grey magnolias in dusk, unclosing their smiles… yet. I lie when I say “unknowable”—the image of the satellite lingers because it suits the mood of the individual, a constant icon shifting in phases, some nights drawing out of focus, permitting any slight gesture to easily block it from the perspective of the horizon. The moon exists as a perpetual reminder of my individualism, wait, no, my singularity, that sense of self that lies in the center of the skull—

Spent the day grading
while the moon circled elsewhere,
hidden from full view.

Day without walking.
And now a slight nervousness
lingers in my hands.

Shifting through your lungs
a pale sinus infection
invades your system.


  1. Today,I take this.

    Cold medication
    leaves me in a heavy fog.
    You confess the same.

    So deep more than such a few words!


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