Paper Caper

Paper Caper

Paper is a caper, but with pen, a friend. I write for the right to say
what's right on my mind. Without the write, I'm not blind, from the
side I'm just fine. Flow, like sweat from my brow, and I wonder if I'm
frown. Davis on the mic, hot sweaty and smooth, like butter on corn
eaten down at noon. Moon you say, in the sky last night? No clouds, no
rain, until I hit the bed. Pillow so soft, on the cradle of the land,
let's my hand flow with words, "Woodford" you say. Economical. Great.
Greed. Lean. Fatty, like liver after too many reds. Reds, like dreads,
like an inside joke - shared to be funny with funny Woodford folk.
Ford, like Henry, drives me here, field with tent, otherwise middle of
nowhere. That's what makes me write on this day, on a brown paper bag
with little filter, and little lag. Paper now low, and verbs almost
spent. But sweat still rolls, like the wheels of descent. All that,
and a bag of chips, and a little happieness - the tension between
epxectations and place, give away the race.

@ Woodford, 29 December 2009