Or the one you said you'd hold on to for dear life.

It's early--not early as it could be.

It's early like 7:30 early, I've been up since 4:45 Sam texted at 5:15 to bring my laptop in so she could play me new music.  There is weather coming no doubt, the water told me so.  It wont be much though the birds are still crying and yesterday there were squirrels running through the dead woods.  Tyler is here, Sam, me.  He hasn't slept since last night, fresh home from Bmore as of a half hour ago he rolls hard like I like to, we're talking TV series she's defending Lost, he The Wire and there is music on my laptop which I am taking in like gulps of air.  I had no comprehension of how cut-off I'd be from the Muse when she went down--my laptop that is.  No music that I love, no poetry no links no blogrolling and most of all, no room for Kel fast as I can to spondown and get it all out.  The journals, they're full, but nothing to fill me back up with no music.  It's a process.  Reciprocation.  I HAD No IDEA.  I sat on the bed for three hours just listening to Pandora and my ITunes, feeling the life come back on deep inside me.  The poems finally emerged then, I spondown'd on here then pulled out the leather back journal Erika overnighted (with her most recent adv copy Hem's Girl which I can't put down--word!!!!) that was waiting on my doorstep yesterday afternoon and I wrote a full, whole poem in that.  I am re-setting my ways as result of not having this my core sustenance.  I have learned something yet again the necessity of filling up, and the absolute non-negotiable:  having a place to fill with the words, a place that remains the same.

Sam played me her man's music he is Philly local soon enough I played her Josh just one song an old one it's the first time I'd done that in a very very long time and that was enough.  We work together Sam and me long hours ten hours at a time and so she is on to me as me to her: we hold the other's stories already, having known each other less than a month.  Some of them anyway, a single bone or two but skeletal-enough. So that with sparing details or so many that they come out in mouthfuls a few bursts at a time we know what flesh were giving the other, which bone on which to hang this part. This was a new twist.  This had new gold.  Little light flecks on the skin.  Long shadows from underfoot aura big as the aururaborelias in the western sky.

I'm seeing my friend Laura Walsh tonight I told her, I play her Walsh's music.

And soon enough there is the response, I feel the throes of the words from somewhere inside my chest and had to get on here it was a matter of health.  Sam and Ty humor me, roll silver and we small talk and cut sidemouth cracks on one another especially about me on the clock.  Here it is the skeleton I am yearning for the one o holy loss the lac of which leaves me with out structure or faith, and happy enough to deny that even a boneyard exists.   How Charles Simic said.  Who can not howl will not find his pack.

I am sick.  Being packless sucks.