The

                                       The

                                 E    Y   E    S

                                        of

                                         A  

                              W    R   I   T   E   R                                     

  I Have to admit my love of taking an adventure with

   ” Mac Vogt’s ” weightings and how he thinks and

   reveals himself in his work.

 I find it fascinating the comprehension two eyes can have and

 his ability to bring us into his world  …. A  writer has one inspiration

 beyond their own work ….Let me wake up to something I ‘am

 inspired to read and this you have done Mr. Vogt 

Originally shared by Mac Vogt

Coffee & Thoughts

There’s a stanza that ends: …just as the coffee tree in Guatamala torments my sleep. I’m not sure of the first half of the analogy. The full idea exists in a nighttime vault, along with the needed combination.

I once met a locksmith. He told me he breaks into safes for a living. I asked, “Just like the movies?” He was drinking and Irish and said, “Exactly,” with a casual sincerity.

Poetry requires the controlled application of insanity. At times, the best way to do this is to let go of the control, then the application, then the insanity. No wonder at all the drug use. Destroy the hotel room, the safe unopened among the wreckage.

I’ve gotten into the innocuous habit of a half cup drip before I close.

Sleep deprivation, nine out of ten doctors agree, is disastrous for health and, when met with caffeine, demonstrates physiological effects more in common with hard drugs than we’d like to admit.

No, coffee is not a drug by its culinary qualities and service to the economy, however, I’m an addict and a drug dealer and I experiment with sleep deprivation without even realizing, all at the alter of poetry.

Just as I find myself balance, I push off into the spaghetti. I’ve been doing this all my adult life.

Chaos has its uses.

Have you ever been so serious, been so balanced, so good that fun fades into the abstract? That you know what you need to do to give purpose in your life. Ever try to write then? Just trading for a different set of blinders. Another pattern to settle stagnant into.

So says the addict.

But it’s true isn’t it that balance doesn’t so much crack the safe as it does teleport a different piece of you into its confines? Isn’t that what all the done-to-death suburban anxiety pieces are all about?

I’ve been writing like shit, my apartment’s a mess, my heart is tormented by something but I can’t figure it out. To admit a lie is another lie. Swap out lie for truth, eg. I’m not at the cafe right now. I’ve got a day off to make my way back to a new balance. I’d like a new hand please.

Take my old one and shuffle it back into the deck.?