the early riser guider, pastel orb of high color value,
looks askance at the two men watching it,
for fresh and clean, it, the sun, from
the horizon born and bathed and toweled blue terry sky dry

the men, well they stinkin'
from body sweat hikin' and grease and drinkin'
Mr. Coffee and cheap *****,
an expensive high, when next day payback comes due

but none better for inspire to hire and
merging men's alternative verses writ in alternating styles,
trading stanzas under a lighting-felled inspiration tree,
waiting for that insightful light that comes too brief

how can it be each thinks, that tho never in the flesh met,
thank to Mr. Coffee and cheap *****,
the bond just gets stronger every day way,
the poetry better with each sippin',
as many rivers confluent on their way home
to the slightly jealous observing Pacific sea,
the original mother lode of all creation,
well, She says:

"boys,
good job and good luck remembering anything
and getting home safe and sound!"

to which we drink a toast of Mr. Coffee and cheap *****
and it ocurs to one, perhaps both,
this is kinda a love poem after all

<>

"having found a white coal seam amidst the black bunting
that decorates their glum apprehension of tomorrow's tidings"^

the computer tablet recognizes as I essay,
                                                          ­                        the "tomorrow" word
as possessing a reality, with time sensitivity,
please,  somebody help us, almost

an inevitability

the possibility of a realizable event,
                           as if the poem composing was
the future's assuming a 99% probability,           right ready for scheduling

offering me two choices:
create event or view calendar?

as if the next shooting, bombing,
and my glum apprehension thereof,
as if ''tomorrow's" tidings were mine own doing
of my undoing,
somehow my fears create or anticipation of
the "next one" makes me a guilty part

my heart cracking with despairing moans
knowing that this is foolishness

but  
              not to me

for as we think upon it, that tiny extra precaution,
'tis already the small death of me
each death a cut in the same spot,
and the pestering wound ground deeper, bone closer

find myself
jailed in a place with no view, insecure and unprotected

no view, no window to crack, no window no view
no to letting  in fresh air, hope or something good,
and yes to no,
I know about this and that and words
intended to offer up optimism,
albeit on a small scale

I am careful not to mock
the words and those who offer up

but seriously,
don't

I came to,
I came to this place to write
only love poetry silly love songs
and some black angel sideswiped me in the left lane
writing now in stead of ways I'm dented and unforgiving
feeling stoopidly foolish            even as
I try and I try to find the seed germane to the connectivity between the horror hallmarks of these times and the ******* window is just stuck stuck stuck

I'll think I'll change my name,
honestly,
only love poetry? cries out ridiculous

this is no poem, more a teacher's note of surrender,
                                                       come back with a new identity or just a new field of endeavor

so I put that on my calendar for tomorrow
and it appears right away, right after:

6:00 am Check on Glum Apprehensions
and it appears that I'm too late

confirming I've missed my appointment so too late for my kind of tomfoolery.             and that white seam, glimpsed but not grasped, illusion noxious,, I can't seem to locate it anymore