Just a ray of light before winter comes.

I wrote a few lines today, trying to make a poem but it didn't work out. Here is all that remains from it:
the leaves blowing around on the patio made their own quiet, rhythmic music.

Four minutes to 10, a late time really. Later than normal. New strings on a guitar that has been locked away from more than a year. An older amp that still has a warm hum to it. Impossible to start.
To save money I started drinking water instead of beer. Maybe this will somehow create some kind of different mind set?
List of people who have died in the last year:
David Bowie
The phase after his death was met with a lot of re listening and a lot of discovering albums I had forgotten or not yet listened to.
Book read in the last year:

I used to shove my disc man into the back of my pants and walk over the the Memphis Public library for breaks while working at a music store near there. Aimless. I would walk over, smoke a few cigarettes, and ride the escalator to the second floor. I would get a guest pass and log on and read sports pages, type of some on a blog or live journal, and the log off. I would then peruse the stacks of books on that floor, looking for authors to jump out at me, or maybe looking for a book with the right spine design.
I may walk the stairs up to the 3rd or 4th floor, looking at history books; usually with a military slant. Most of what i read left my mind the moment the words were read; I have awful retention of information. But I still found joy somehow in pouring through those books. That library was opened in 2001 I believe...insane.
 I haven't run or exercised in two weeks. I have been battling the flu. A fucking nightmare. I think its my first. Um, what else...I have read probably 200 pages or so of Shelby Foote's civil war. I don't want to stop reading it but I feel like I need to read something else for a moment; take a break. I have a few things on their way from various branches. I can never tell which books will stick. I got Travels with Charley, by Steinbeck. I started it at lunch today and it seems pretty good. I have a new book coming in, The sport of Kings, about horse racing (among other themes ill probably fail to pick up on).  What else?  I guess that is it. This is more of a journal entry.  So, hi. J.D. in 10 years when you read this.

They both carried buck eyes around with them at all times. He kept his in his bag; the little pocket that could be used for pencils and pens. She kept hers in her purse. They would forget they was there. Never looked at, never poured over with rough fingertips. Its surface was never rubbed for good luck. It just sat there in the folds of his bag and next to the tampons and mirrors in hers. But they both had one. They had a kid, too. He was crazy and he grew and grew and grew. At times they never knew when they could get a breath in on their on. At other times they wondered how they lived without the child. Clothes at first would be too big, and then there were small.
Once, not too long ago it felt, but really decades, they had biked around university lakes together. Stopping near an old oak tree to watch the pelicans drift in their lazy circles; it was winter. All these birds just came to their lakes. He noticed them first on his runs and then he started to invite her. Parks all over the world have signs that say "don't feed the birds bread," but like everyone else they always did. "I touched one!" she shouted out as a goose was lurking near her for bread. A boy was learning to walk. His parents watched lovingly from a distance as he took his first steps onto the stage...

It  so happened that rose was her favorite color. She wore it in the fabrics wrapped around her neck. Had a sweater than swam in its murky red. And she drank it heavily at all times of the year in the light colored wines. Her cup of choice was an earthen jar she had found at a garage sale some years back. Its dark green and browns hugging closely to the legs of the wine; sloshing around its dark cylinder. In the heat of the summer, head tilted slightly she called out

A wept like a baby this morning after hearing of the passing of David Bowie. I woke up, turned on my phone to browse what is now considered news: mostly vintage photos of half naked girls, a couple of friend's posts about what they are eating, and all these pictures of David Bowie. What was this? "Why were they posting pictures of Bowie," i thought while struggling to wake up.
I went into the front room and played "Five Years," pulled my hat over my eyes, and cried large chunks of tears. Didn't know it would affect me like that. You can feel the hole in our culture which is so artless now.
You will be missed for ever.