Public writing

This is public writing. Like radio Clash. Twain is observing over my shoulder, and there is a picture across the way of the the courtroom in the movie version of a book written with Truman Capote loosely the originator of one role.
I am becoming notes tonight. Little blips and bleeps – and it is football season. Your friends are mighty I would say to you if you were here. I will become heat and rising and little pieces of cotton candy. You ate them. I am silly still. I want to fill a page. It is way too late, but not early enough. What will happen in the end.
Even Thelonious Monk’s wife wished the jam to be over sometimes – that all of the boys would go home.
This is stopgap.