think of your brain as the attic

For L.B.

where the keepsakes can be divided as follows:

A. “why the heck did I keep that”
with an inner smile,
knowing all the while,
exactly forsooth  but why never forsaken,
and which commemoration is  
one of your future
lady-poems-in-waiting

B.  “rest here, till your first time return"
is appreciated approved appropriate;
your place at the dining table
is set, and you, a new keepsake
are the guest of honor
both old friend, and newborn

there is no riding rush to gush upwards and out
but perhaps the anti-gravity  slow pull of
upward percolation

lucky are you in this,

for @4:20am.
my "attic" is the basement
and these  wild-eyed creatures come
sparked  and sparkling,
covered in creative juices
that like a nouveau beaujolais
must be drunk immediately
and demanding joie de vivre

this bursting Butz antic was first (ha!)
described as follows in terms
less poetical,
and more
apoplectical

“the best don’t even flow, they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that, are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection  roadblock or the delivery guy,  
the one with the towel and the scissors,
who brings ya
a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?”

alas the pizza store is shuttered
in the wee morning birth borning,
so I choose natural  La-Maze method for
birthing poems,
as my only option,

so says the
poet ****** @ 4:20am on 4/20/18

I don't even care what it says
just as long as it's out of my head