Inert Good grief, it’s been a month since I’ve written. I’ve come here, started, saved drafts even, but the inner writer part of me has been frozen. Now, after three weeks of transition and change on most every level I can think of, it’s day two of flu on the couch. To my great relief, the gears that hold my inner pen begin to thaw. I’m going with it. Interesting. East cold air broken chair button loose the gentle noose of inertia west It’s on the table The pen, the page the care full smile the insistent rage North up it’s on my mind a kind of dissonance a lack of usefulness make do with less in the way I feel under the disguises teeth and eyes teeth and eyes it’s in my thoughts a sniff of change a rearrangement in the value of love the how, the why and the why not.