I could fill my mornings with black coffee and morning news any time; yet most days I choose to listen to music, cup of coffee with sugar and cream. Today I met somewhere in no man’s land. One cup black, one cup sweet, one cup black with two tablespoons of sweet left over as I refilled my bountiful green mug. No cream. I chatted with a neighbor. Music on. Then I read a Ginsberg poem.

I rather read my news, then digest it through someone else’s mouth that came from another’s hand, let alone the source in that quake. It’s all been too much now. I read the headlines everyday, and I can’t bring myself to watch news on tv. American tv news.

The pictures are what gets to me. I can’t see the dirty bombs and explosions.

A family history of paths to pave with legacies endured, and I can’t watch American tv news.

I read a Ginsberg poem dated 67 years ago.

Almost 68.

Not much has changed.

I retire.

I write.

I am without.

I tread faster.

Futile existence and I choose the pen.