Seabirds and Waves, the Paper, the Ink

 the houses anyway, familiar in that stance as scruffy pet cats. The trees in front were apparently hanging on to something he still couldn't see to believe, but he could feel its presence in the sap and branches. Nonetheless. A change of heart. An irreversible engine starting to grind its gnawing teeth against the newness of this, another particular day. No laughter, he said to himself. No screams of pure delight

 to startle the hidden birds into flight from their crowded bushes. No bees bouncing and buzzing about the eaves, the drains. No butterflies, not even cabbage moths, blowing like tiny white paper bags across the empty road. Mostly sunny, but without anything moving at any real visible pace. Where are the warrior wind dancers when you need them? Aren't they supposed to be on call for times like these? It's

 not like we need more rain, he said to no one, but we could maybe use a rumble or two of some sort, a simple stirring up of the rising winds, just to get things started conversing amongst themselves. A big bell ringing out of nowhere kind of thing happening. The last human poet sat himself down at his wooden desk and looked around in silence at his own familiar, fading shirt of a room. There's good old Van

 Gogh. Hey, Vincent, nice to see you. Some battling blues still hanging on to the open lapel of his jacket like long-lost fingerprints. The ginger red of his artistically clipped beard. Self-portrait with straw hat. Ben Watt & Tracey Thorn at the Moth Club. Oct. 25, 26, 27. Tickets on sale. Just two posters from the past now. John Lennon with his eyes closed in a black and white close up. Listen to this button. Listen to

 this dream. Listen to this postcard. #9 Dream b/w What You Got. Is it The Pink Floyd or just Pink Floyd, he wondered to the cornered wall? He used to start anywhere, because he knew that that was where the beginning was, with a great amount of feeling the gusto! It would take him there, where he wanted to go, eventually. Bit of a magical notion that, about doors and windows appearing out of

 nowhere that would willingly lead one to somewhere else. But, in truth, he wished now he was sitting beside an ocean, alone, in a chair near the eternally mysterious shoreline, listening for nothing but seabirds and waves again. The poetry there was natural. It didn't have to be dug up or walked over, like bridges. The last human poet got up to pee. Why didn't his body tell him to do this before he sat

 down? He missed typewriters. He really liked their sound. And fussing with the paper. The ink. The whole mess. The zing. Boring, he thought to himself. Just too fucking boring for words. The last human poet wrote in his secret diary that he must not romanticize typewriters ever again or lose all self respect. Things looked pretty grim in that respect. The last human poet laughed. It felt pretty good

 actually. He used to love to smoke also. Writing poetry was like smoking a cigarette. It probably wasn't good for you, but it sure as hell beats vitamins and water. Kale can go to hell! The last human poet put on his baseball cap and adjusted the bill. Let's go outside, he said. Maybe we'll find some poetry someone dropped on the sidewalk. Score, he shouted. There's always something falling from

 the sky anyway, according to the evening news. Maybe the trees will have caught something we can use. Maybe we'll see a piece of something sparkling in the grass and find out it's the one word we've been searching for all along. Writing poems is a very tricky business, you know. You need all the goosed incentive you can get-- just to get started. The last human poet smiled. Or you never know. You just really never know.