Getting Out of The Garret

I wonder,if the fact that I've now decided to stop ignoring the urge to write,and my increasing sociability are connected? Not being generally regarded by most who know me as the most gregarious of men,down right misanthropic,I've probably spoken to more people and more interesting people since I started to write than I have for a long time.

I write,in public,since an unusual thing to do,people frequently,come up to me and ask what,I'm doing. The secret,is that I'm using an old-school pen and paper.A laptop says,go away,a pen and paper is old fashioned,and old fashioned,doesn't tell you to get lost.

I spent sunday evening,talking with a priest(casper),about poetry,music,god,football. He just had to know,what I was doing. This most solitary of arts,has,paradoxically,began to turn me into the most social of people.

NO ONE KNOWS WHERE THE HOBO GOES
A bad night out,
lightning illuminates the sky.
I see the way ahead.

It's a cold wind
and hard rain falling.
Smoked the last cigarette,
an hour ago.

Snow bends branches,
in the distance a light.
I just walk on.

Tracks covered up
and rain fills bootmarks.
Nothing passed by here,
Hobo in the snow.

Body heat falls,
with every drink taken.
Dead in the snow.

Poet quote of the day comes from Thomas Macauley,'Perhaps,no person can be a poet,or even enjoy poetry without a certain unsoundness of mind'