My Computer is Done For...

My computer is on the brink of death. It is with great regret that I inform my faithful readers of this most tragic news.

But I'm really not complaining. Sure, I'll miss sending (and receiving email). Plus I won't be able to update my blog: I was looking forward to composing a chapbook review or two. But perhaps it's time to take a break from all that.

Hell, my computer is OLD. And we've shared many good years together. May my tired old Mac rest in peace. Amen.

It's time to buy a notebook and a really good pen. No shame in that. Just ask Whitman and Dickinson.

I'm grateful my days of being alive online -- ended on a happy note: James H Duncan (he edits Hobo Camp Review) included one of my poems in the spring issue of his online poetry and fiction review.

I suggest taking a long peek: The poets and writers are the unafraid kind (think Whitman, Dickinson, Ginsberg, Sexton, Plath, etc.). Plus add Corso and all the other major Beat writers. And you will discover a new generation of poets and writers that are quite happy to be on the unpredictable road -- and have little desire to settle down in the safe suburbs. It's all about taking risks. Hell, no lives of quiet desperation for these folks! And I should know! We are like a family of deliberate misfits (IMHO).

Anyway, here's the link to the site: http://hobocampreview.blogspot.com/

And this is my poem: I'd like to thank James for including my work with the poetry and prose of so many truly gifted writers. I am genuinely humbled.

So here you go. I'll be thinking of all of you as I put pen to paper. Be happy and well.

In The Dark Café

It grows cold out there.
But I didn't call, I didn't call
before I ran away from home.
The large hot tea is sweet and good.
I've finished my cake, but hunger
for something more. Young people
smile and smoke, and remind me
I am getting old. Too
old for the insane games
he forced me to play at home.
The small voice inside saying:
be careful be careful.
(He watches my window, and
wants me to know. Five days
in a row, shrill messages at dawn,
until I took the phone off the hook.
Now notes on my door. Red
rage bleeding on every page.)

It seems so much saner here.
Two skeletons play chess.
A homeless girl reads The Catcher In The Rye.
The hot waiter dances,
like a young Travolta.
I glance at a poet and become calm and bold
(he counts his long fingers after every line).
I remember a sonnet I wrote in school:
A disconnected phone can't make you cringe,
and better locks may keep you safe inside.
Because you failed to give back love to love –
the angry ravens watch you from above.
I am far far from home.
I've come to this place to think and mend.
These smiling strangers are my only friends.
My stalker's at home.
It grows colder outside.
I write this poem instead.

© 2011 by Dylan Mitchell