~commissioned accidentally by a melody,
a passing glance, a purring perchance,
an idle innocent comment,
to be born as the first poem of this day,
@7:00am
Tue Sep 18 2025,
writ in haste, before
departing over many islands to
another place called "home"~

---~<>~---

sometimes,
not so secret,
anon, ^
sometimes,
so much more,
than that but a glancing of favoring,
a handshake secreted, is actually felt,
actually secreted,
and rare though via~able,
it passes through a longing traveled voyage,
over wire, under sea's cabling, through space,
hoisted from & by satellite over continental divides
just a hop, skip and jumpstart
over this tiny planet,
and though, but, an amorphous 👍 thumb,
a colored 💙 or collared,  
or a pointing 🫵
body part
the like,
bears more than just a passing resemblance
to another

f o u r   l e t t er   w o r d

its often lost & found
dear cuz ^^
full of meanings hidden,
or even
anon,
"I'll be there shortly"^
                                                         magic!                                               ­         
                                                       ­                                                           nml

"Ideally, I’m at a nice desk in my home office or a library or a cafe somewhere, but I really try to train myself to write anywhere and at any time."
Author Rebecca Kuang (1)

<nml>
bus stops, airplanes,
soaking bathtubs, any couch in every room.
driving, jitney riding, back of taxis,
bed, beds, anywhere I rest my head,
airport lounges, (hotel bars, very har-d)
in backyards by the water,
where serenity and serendipity,
order me motionless, stilled, and yet,
doggedly pursued by the
emissions of the observable,
anytime anyplace,
while making love,
while taking love
giving love,
in motion, at rest,
reading yours, stumbling over fab quotes,
in restaraunts,
or sidewalk concrete streamings,
on either
paper or cloth
napkins,
(but not tablecloths)
soft places, watery places,
(but not pewed hard benches,
unless the sermons are just god~awful)
tears on face
privately and publicly,
Yankee Stadium,
did I mention the subway?
long drives on horrible highways,
upon seeing beautiful people,
little children, streets full of couples
holding hands, arms around shoulders
d r a p i n g
and babies...

theater, where the spoken lines enunciate/incite me,
walking on the street and music earbuds
issue me ten commandments,
lyrics to analyze,
words to satisfy,
provocations that fallow were,
now demanding a dueling satisfaction


'round children, anytime or anyplace,
in fact, in deed,
the most difficult place
is at my desk,
where the pressures of composition,
brings an ill disposition,

watching ballet dancers twist my soul,
by watching the human body unfold,
did I mention the Metropolitan
Museum.
Opera
Transit Authority,
yeah yeah
pretty much anywhere inspirations lay
littered on sidewalks, in the air,
***** underground stations,
in motion, or in emotion,
places and moments of devotion
wherever they are detectable,
in streams of conscious unconsciousness,
walking by river esplanades,
central parks,
overhearing drama spoken on city streets,
where things said, cannot be unheard,
and never forgotten...

that pretty much covers all the places,
most of all the fresh faces,
and the tired old shuffling bodies inclusive

did I mention doctor's waiting rooms?
especially in silent elevator trips of long duration,
trapped within by **** looking human beings,
and you compose witty ditty
opening lines
that die on vines unspoken

or kids with outrageous, flashing lights on sneakers,
inside department stores
not much,
but those Fifth Ave. windows at holiday seasons,
plenty writing inspiration,
bunch of bunches

where the Towers fell,
where blood innocent was felled,
in snow, rain and slush,
over good bad desserts,
near Good Humor and Mr. Softee trucks,
upon openings  of refrigerators
with nothing but moldy cheese,
or freezers overstocked with no room to breathe,
in the dark to a symphony of tiny multi colored electronic dots,
in rooms with tinny roofed ceilings during Florida hurricanes,
walking down unending hallways with no exits signs
for miles and miles

well that about covers it,
if you had a few spare weeks, you would find a poem from
each and every one of these situational places,

so the point well made,
you write in you head,
which you take pretty much
everywhere

>nml<

on the couch,
where else?
6:12am

(from "To: Mimi Romanelli"

~indebted to suggestion of
https://hellopoetry.com/MacGM/
for filling me up one of the trillions of missing datapoints
in my slowly diminishing insights & missing knowledges
<>
"I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms. Finally: happy."

from the poem by Rilke
"To: Mimi Romanelli"
see notes

'~~~'
so worthy of my/our attentions,
his reflections on loss, grief and mortality,
for in the natural course of this poet's story,
the interplay of this shopping list of preoccupations,
foremost on this temporal frontal lobe in these waning days
of my perhaps, last summery summary,
that falls upon your eyes with
my guilt that you have clicked upon
this e~pistle, in and un~
tentionally & tensionally
thus demanding & tendering post-haste
my apology

so be advised, be learned, and query why
an essay on ending mortality should be
be finished with a concluding a
"Finally: happy."
by breaching this poet Rilke essay,
one discovers
this poet sees through the storms of his preoccupations,
"the red of his blood,"
because he loves
another human, being,
so many would agree,
yet so few are so certain,
as Rilke,
and yet,

"It is still always that death which continues inside of me, which works in me, which transforms my heart, which deepens the red of my blood, which weighs down the life that had been ours so that it may become a bittersweet drop coursing through my veins and penetrating everything, and which ought to be mine forever.

And while I am completely engulfed in my sadness, I am happy to sense that you exist,
Beautiful. I am happy to have flung myself
without fear into your beauty just as a bird flings itself into space. I am happy, Dear, to have walked with steady faith on the waters of our uncertainty all the way to that island which is your heart and where pain blossoms.
Finally: happy."


<>
Writ the last week of August,
and the first of September
2025