Old Stuff
I know I've already posted this on POEASY but it's hot out today, and it felt appropriate considering I haven't really written in quite some time.

I'm remembering the Dustcloud Two, and how I abandoned them in an old notebook on some page in the middle. I bet they're pretty lonely. Sometimes I wonder if, when I close the book, suddenly there are wide open plains, deserts, cacti, and lots of long, low fences. White, even though they're dusty, dusky, covered with sand and tumbleweeds caught on them, big tumbleweeds rolling across the ground, mirroring clouds rolling across the sky. I'm sure the Dustcloud Two think of them as cattle stampeding - the tumbleweeds. Or maybe it's the clouds they're thinking about, I don't know. I never named the Dustcloud Two - personal names, I mean, not titles. I don't even really know who they are. Are they tumbleweeds? Are they lizards? If they're lizards, in my mind I picture them wearing little cowboy hats and sheriff stars. And neckerchieves, maybe. Maybe they're lizards in boyscout uniforms. Maybe they only imagine that they're the Dustcloud Two... maybe their names are really Francis and Jonathan, or Clarence and Bob, or Daniel and Fritz, or Maximillian and Chadwick. I don't know. I don't know very much about the Dustcloud Two at all. It seems this narrative (if you could call it that) is winding down... why is it that when I reach the bottom of a sheet of paper I start to feel like there's nothing left in a story, when people like Shakespeare write pages and pages, hundreds of fat manuscripts, big as rich men in Jamaica, although (admittedly) none of them (Shakespears, not fat Jamaican men) write about little boy scout lizards in the desert named Fritz or Clarence or Herbert, lizards who think they're a pair of outlaws, or sheriffs, who call themselves the Dustcloud Two. Am I writing a sci-fi novel, or a western? But this brings me back to the beginning - are Clarence and Bob lonely in that closed desert of a notebook? Do they angrily kick the long, low, white fences when they think of me? Do they make elaborate plans of escape only to be confronted with cliffs and canyons on the outskirts that disappear into mist? I wonder.