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Friday, 30 October 2009

Not writing letters. Not writing friends. Letting the editor kill pieces too quickly.

Too busy with software development, a supposed sideline, money making hobby, turned too serious.

Plagued by disengaged arguments—the will to pop the clutch on them buried beneath the cowardice of fatherhood’s concern for being here tomorrow.

The smell of roasting green chile only an emotional memory of high desert October. An embrace missing. Blue atole. Chorizo and eggs served Christmas. Bereft. The peasant and idiotic palate of jalapeños and cilantro a depressing stand-in they push at you expecting enjoyment. This world that makes spell checkers which want to correct chile.

This world which would rather pay me six figures to write software no one particularly needs than a humble five to write poems and songs and bitch about how much I want to like everyone.

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