I have an excess of pretty words.
Poetry and prose.
They just sit there, sweating in the folds of old journals, too old or too good for the people and experiences for which they were written.
But such is the creative process, is it not?
If every detail of life and love was spelled out for us from the get go, the muses would be out of a job.
Rumination would be canceled.
Our imaginations would become obsolete relics, like rotary phones, and all that mad scribbling and paint smearing scheduled for the wee hours would be replaced with heavily medicated snores.
And open mics?
Performed by crickets.
So...
Lately I've been trying to spend the old poems. Or at least take them to pawn shops and see if they're worth anything.
Whaddya think, wanna buy it?
Sometimes I can sneak them in between some pretty pictures and the ticket-taker doesn't even notice they're there. Or just looks the other way and tosses me an upvote out of sympathy.
Or because they like birds.
And black-and-whites.
This is my entry for the #monomad challenge, held daily in the Black and White Community.
This is also a #fridayfreewrite, a cool thing that 
But really it is a #fridayprewrite. (Shhhhh.) As you read this, I am somewhere on an island in the north, stalking crows and waiting for orcas and running around on rainy beaches looking for #deadthings with a wiry little dog named Pilot. As I write this, however, I am home for a day, in-between road trips, up late and road-weary, nursing heartburn a blasphemous adult hot cocoa and wouldn't you like to know the recipe.
I wish it cured heartburn.
All the kinds.
Alas. It just burns more.
instagram: @se_pdx_crows
Art in NFT Showroom
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