It was a weekend off when, after dinner, I decided to head to the docks and the beach, one before the other, pen and two-dollar marble notebook in hand, to scribble out something decidedly beautiful. By the side of children playing and boat whistles blowing, I committed to the act of writing something and calling it poetry. Though narrative and long-winded, the meat of it had cadence; a rhythm. I used to be a drummer, now the kick boom affects my everything.

A friend of mine asked the other night why I do this, and why it matters; if anyone was listening. I don’t know, I replied to all his inquiries, before settling on an answer to the first two questions with a single thought: because it saves me.

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Since I didn’t have the music that was supposed to be sent by a friend who’s usually on time with everything but went on a four-day bender, I gave in and wrote some songs myself. As a man proud of only living this long after so many cat-lives crossed off, a man who writes mediocre poetry and lives a decent life, I’ll let you know that these songs are no good. But they made me laugh, and maybe you’ll feel it too. It’s the jazz of juxtaposition, from songs about moon zucchinis to a bit of my wishes for your company so we could swim together under the moon; all sung and spoken from an outdoor shower under a beach cottage on stilts.

The crickets helped too, though there’s no link I can share to promote their symphonic melodies. Best I can advise is that you turn this machine off and head outside.