A Lady Awakens at Dawn

So many hand written notes and stories lie in moleskins awaiting my reply
The black ink of other nights gather and watches me typing new remarks and new adventures
The old words not asked for their permission, their input, or even a blessing

The typewriter I tenderly named Cassandra will spin yarns all her own
I sit and type at her gently polished edges and lines
Her hinges, grooves, and sensuality revitalized to what she always should have been

I play my Miles Davis record and sip on my red wine
The words coming easily and smooth like a long forgotten taste of sea salt on ocean waves
The calm and mysterious lady I obey and allow her the words she must display

She helps me with the rhythm and I invent my own rhyme
I ignore the prerequisite of tone, demeanor, and poetry cadence
I pound away to my turquoise traveling lady and soak in the soothing jazz

My 1964 Smith Corona Corsair named "Cassandra"

My 1964 Smith Corona Corsair named “Cassandra”

Mistakes are bound to happen and I ignore them with ease

I just keep a pace and promise to correct them another day

The history is in my hands and the pressure I commit to each word
Bright and blushing I appear as the joy of a cadence appears
The darkest hours of the night Mixes with the unrelenting click, clack, and dinging of the bell.

The Stories of Bukowski now make more sense to my ears
His angry neighbors kept awake night after night
The lunacy of a mad drunk writer typing his life instantly and forever on parchment

I pour the wine between pages
Rolling cigarettes between memories and hazy storylines
The glass getting shorter and the bottle soon to become just another trophy on the shelf
The ashtray stuffed full with agony, pain, and the bleeding of words to paper

The feeling of a lifetime as a solo saxophone plays a hymn to the sunrise
The joints loose and ready for the day
An inspirational reawakening to a Smith-Corona named Cassandra


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