~a companion to “A Flawless Poem” (1)
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time is truly never on your side,
but it lends an assist
with a continual grinding inexorable steady draining,
but that narrowing perspective, clarifies, opens eyes wider, and yes,
simplifies and prioritizes

there is an elegance in simplicity,
and write this as a reminder
to self,
that the beauty of
straightforward brevity,
with a honed tip
is likely the fastest path
to the sticking point,
and there, and here,
will I leave you
to it,
flawlessly

“We all need a promised land”
Carole King, “Been to Canaan”
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the lyric tickles
like the worst itch imaginable
and consequently consuming
demands this
old boy pay attention

it’s so true, it’s so devious,
we strike our temples
for failing to see the obvious,
throw, roll
our bodies on the damp ground,
like the dead of whom
it’s said
will roll to the
promised land
when the messiah will come(1)

but meantime
we thrash about
not knowing
what
is
a promised land,
let alone how to get there

perhaps
the promised land
is within the
states of our mind;
need to travel there,
just prepare
to jump, dive deeper
than living a life
of ice skating upon the surface
of wasted existence's of
grinding grinning
day in, day out

unroll our sleeping bags,
our ruksak pillow,
examine the stars locations,
when morning breaks,
pick up you leavings
behind,
and roll
roll ourselves up,
onto, can~do,
Canaan

“We should like Nature to go no further; we should like it to be finite, like our mind; but this is to ignore the greatness and majesty of the Author of things.”
—Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, 1715
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for my dear friends who amply supply
pictures of the infinity of nature
daily
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the comfort food of your
living-loving-eyeshot
screenings  of moments preservations of

the delicate and the roughened,
the mystical and magical of
our creative globe’s ad and mis
ventures,
oft far from the paths of human ruination
trafficking

these photos

the first of the day,
signaling white smoke rising or
the full fledged regular milky
insertion photographic
into the mine daily awakening
of the
purpled majesty of the world
when ******* pleasure of
first coffees of life’s days

and how it pleases me,
that there is no
conceptual conceivable,
that there will not be an
finishing enthralling,

a last never-before-witnessed
visionary submission
without
a never finite ending to this
infinite processional!

thus no need to say with
them ordinary wordy pleas of/to:
“keep them coming,”

for by your read acknowledgement of
this here poem,
you have cosigned this
contractual
o b l i g a t i o n

and I say
an ecstatic
Thank You

she pretends~polite irascibly
enquires:

“So far, and so early,
when your day begins,
when the main brain
rebels with that creature of energetic ether,
be it midnight or any hour
thereafter,  
before daylight

brings you new clearer
and brighter brilliant visions of the
hereafter,
and the earnest hours allow your disquiet
pre~tense that you’re going about you busyness, which is a plain brown paper wrapper guise,
to write more poetry’s
that thy thine, your
“eyes~command, nay, demand?”

“And where are my love poem daily promised, premised that it’s a requirement
for our cooperative living arrangement?”

“I am familiar with your many ways, poet,
all your names, viewpoints, specialties,
your secret personas, insider insights that
fool no one, so start your every twenty four on a left foot forward, questioning us, yourself, where shelter lives, even inviting any and all passersby to come inside your scheming mind, and stay awhile, jointly

compositing

upon your uncomfortable
Adirondack thrones, while permitting the sun to burnish brown caramel your inner sweetness, and the wind to bring you scents
from faraway places, to pluck and insert in a variegated languages plurality, to spice up
those written words you ridiculous store in your tiny iPhone, typing one letter at a time,
trying not to fall behind what the mind is
churning and breeding?”

“Furthermore and finally. confess, confess,
your shame, shame,
shame!!
it is my
name
that
deserves the unvarnished truth,
without my
everything,
your poetry will
wither like
a week old roses,
that she/me/da boss
is the one true
authoress
behind the
boy/oy/toy/pretender
to whom I give my very
soul’s inspiration…

“Remember when we used to pour our own milk in Starbucks? I miss those days,” one patron wrote nostalgically on X earlier this month... Now in the process of  getting reinstatement…
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oddity sujet for a poeme. and it begs with
hidden overtones even, for an overture, please,
even the babes&big babies among us with barely a decade to call their own,
long for the un~
complicated places, days, even the moments
momentous that will resonate evermore,

even the most favored nation of that stuffed
animal, that cannot be dismissed, discarded,
who will join them in their no loco parenting of a
snug single of  a freshman doormroom,
with no shame, when the hungry boys are
permitted entry to the chamber, blushing from the hopefulness's of potency of
getting first  lucky,
foolishly sarcastic remarking on
this sad sacred animal presence, and being subsequently serviley, quick dismissed,
with a stupid,wry twisty, puzzled squared landing on their mouth, where the just sensed
passionate kisses  will  ow/now
never arrive

yes, nostalgic
commences amidst the multiple in ~ puts
from early days, ever on,
sorted, filed, systematically,
in a system greater than the
dewey decimal of our libraries

and we experimented with
numerous pours of variable quantities
of
various “milks”
lesson taught when the station is unbusy,
and cute yong men offer helpful hints,
calorically, nutrient-wise, taste varietals,
and leaving a phone number
on the wax container of the
trialed oat milk
which is so a
thing
hard to miss, hard to lose


perhaps this instant of rapture rappore
will lead to a long life,
maybe till spring semester when
you,
a saturated years older
slightly more cautious,
*and yet^
after a hundred nyets,
in a San Fran Starbucks,
near the first job,
it happens, and memories are
rejiggered, restoring priorities
andy
don’t tell nobody
that stuffed animal
is resting comfortably
on her bedroom
in an apt.
Shared with two others,

To all entering, holy of holies,
as a prescreening no~tech
stuffed, well hugged
animal device will
assign a
pass/fail grade