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Something is amiss. I tried to sit down and relax, with my glass of wine and the stupid internet and the stupid TV, which I’ve looked forward to all year, but I just got all antsy. All of those lovely things, the sitting and the pretty moving pictures with lights and sound, were no longer appealing to me. Or I felt, somehow, that they weren’t relaxing if I hadn’t earned them by doing actual work in my brainspace. Which is stupid, because I was at actual work today, all bright-eyed and caffeinated, and used the ole’ grey matter quite a bit, and then hung out with the Ds, folks and brother and sis’ in law, so, that was a full day accomplished already, but it doesn’t feel right. I don’t know if a poem will come from this, and I don’t know if I will post it or not. But, this is the first day of a new year, and there is something inherently poetic about that. Because History.

I’m going to give it a try. See what happens. Maybe I just miss you all already.

Something Amiss

“Miss you already” has always been my favorite goodbye. Miss you, friends hither and yon, especially yon, like I miss my vices, the instant they are gone. It’s because of dopamine receptors and the laughter we’ve brewed together, in offices and bedrooms and kitchens and on trails and lakes and rivers. There’s something amiss, when all I see of you are screens and type and glossy cards marooned on the fridge ’till next year. Something amiss in all this, and let’s think hard, this year, on the commune idea. The ten acres next door is for sale. We could build a labyrinth of treehouses, and get goats. We could make and grow things with our hands and sell it all out of the backs of rusty trucks. Our children would wear mud in the summertime and mohair in the winter. Here in the deep north not one of use would notice our wrinkles, or we would and just cackle. Hell, we’re a coven already. Not one of us would miss the commute, the routine, the paperwork. Not one of us would rather cubicle into retirement. All we need is the land, the tools, and the goats. Think on that, as I miss you here in the land of wires and string.

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Whoops. I poemed again. It just didn’t feel good to not. And I do miss thinking of you, my poemfriends, because I do, as I write, and it is nice, but sometimes sad. Happy Thursday!

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