Stalling on Rondo Hatton, The Ugliest Man in Pictures

which is the name of the poem up next on the docket.  It’s sat around long enough in my to-be-written file, so long that I’ve forgotten where the inspiration came from.  You might think that inspiration would be THE MAN Rondo Hatton himself, but actually it’s the phrase I ripped for the title (well, that and the man, Rondo Hatton himself).

I’ve been finding it easier to write at night when the world beyond the window is one, big inky pool of darkness (and cold).  During the day I have to contend with this.

Perhaps I shouldn’t try writing from the top of a hill.

Once I dropped my pen, it was all over. Falcons, thinking it was easy prey, swooped down to pluck the Pentel R.S.V.P. from the air and proceeded to write themselves all over the sky. It was beautiful, and hard to argue with, but the sun tried.

And then it tucked its head under its arm and went to sleep, taking the world with it. And here I am stuck with blank piece of paper and a title trying to create the world anew. Rondo Hatton, where are you when we need you?

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