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I’m having a tough time getting started tonight. We head home tomorrow, after a good week of theater and very little teenage drama (always a good thing). They are lovely people, these ones. I don’t know what to write about to night. I am a pristine page. Ugh.

We saw Comedy of Errors tonight, which was set in Harlem and was  frenetic and slapstick and made the teens happy. Just, I figure, as it should be. I don’t really have much to poem about that. I liked seeing them laugh.

I sometimes get this feeling like I should be playing the drums. Do any of you ever feel like that? Non-drum players, I mean. If you do play, then of course you get that feeling. What’s strange about this feeling I get is that I’m never listening to music when it comes on. Usually it indicates that I need to shake off whatever responsibility I’m attending to at that moment and do something that makes me feel free. Like spend all night alone writing a really good poem, plus dancing. Unfortunately I am on the clock, and we are waking up before dawn to head home. Maybe tomorrow night, if the drive back is not too trying Also, maybe I should take drum lessons?

Anyhow, it’s just not really coming to me tonight. I’m just going to begin, and see what happens.

Night Drum

It’s some shadow of rhythm that comes up at night, bouncing some unlearned echo across is page, and rising beats I do not know how to hit take hold somewhere below the clavicle. They talk of it driving, and I feel it pushing, this cloudy symmetry, like math, it’s that hazing in my blood. I will throw out the clocks for their heresy, but tap out some tick tick tock, tick tick tock of a beat of my own devising, these night drums grow maddening and my strokes violent, each strike should bring closer some cymbal revelation, some closer knowing, but the tune stays rusty, a relic lost in my empty mind.

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empty indeed. This week, I rededicate. Happy Friday, Poemfriends. Farewell, Ashland! It’s been good.

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