Satruday night reflections

On the way home
vanguard Coltrane
grates and scaffolds and steam
gyrating seizure dancers
punk dreams on the dance floor
casually waiting for the bathroom
and the time to change

a(musings)

finger touches keys
pen touches paper
words flow from my mind like similes.

writing isn't a science or an art. It's just putting your thoughts on paper. Dictating your mind. Synapse to syntax. for some, it's a joy.

haiku is my favorite. It's austere like its homeland. 17 syllables can speak volumes.

5,7,5

Hipster flock on bikes,
Broomstick to the spoke perhaps?
No helmet is fine.

I almost got jumped,
leapt from bushes by McDonalds.
Well how about some change.