5:30 mountain dark
and I’m on the porch,
my coffee in a mug
with mother on it
holding a gun
the only time in her
84 years she shot one.
I open a fancy
journal Murdy made
me, to somehow
write myself
back to myself.
Gonna lock in
and crack, discover
something new
in the dusty corners 
of my tumult
kind of vibe.
I grabbed the wrong 
journal as I tiptoed
the quiet house.
It’s an old one, 
already filled
front to back
with my pleading,
raging, documenting,
and navel-gazing.
There is no room
for a new thought.
So I read my past
repetitions, 
listen to the garbage 
truck and the redbirds
chip hello
to this day, in which
I won’t be able to help
just being my
same ol’ self, again.