~ for Rob Rutledge -
@ 6:15am
~~~~~
we all are living, reading and writing,
paycheck to paycheck
even if by happenstance, our bellies full,

for the white sheets we lay our words
down and upon, our supporters of
ids and egos of egg shell thin lifes
are the bare emptied shelves
of our unending, still ongoing
pandemic pandemonium,
razing times
of eroding joys

the sheets are blank, but our souls
wearied, helmed and whelmed
by the unending of the unexpected
that demands, orders and commands,
no matter what
pour it out blasting
unleashing the rage
compelled, compiled,
completely compulsing
we
selves ordered to compose

giving form and firmament
to our vaporous innards,
releasing new oxygen from
the tides inside and without,
clashing ideas, irregular notions
that demand we poets responsible
for reconciliation and auditing for
human truths

we awake barren but weighty,
the emotions are rustling in the
now daily, common,
mighty metors of gusts of higher winds,
spreading fire and measles to spite,
not despite
our fragile failings & flailings

oh goodness and grace,
let that be the colors of
our skin, our face,
essay on, sashay with a
swinging motion,
yes, rhyme and rhythm

and deliver us with words
so soft, they shatter the
gloomy desperation of
what confronts our entirety,
when the terrors of our
sleeping dreams cannot be
differentiated from the
sad eyed waking
ones

so write, and right,
these troubled times,
when trolls, dragons
and yet unnamed monsters
seek to take away our
tiny green planet, watered,
seeded and plentiful fruited
plains enough to satisfy us all

if we are so emboldened to choose
all of us over our lonely selfish selfs

It hit me the other day
Not the smell of fresh tea
Nor the steam that hissed out of the spout
Spraying droplets into the air
But of the infinitesimal
Interconnected this of it all.

Even in this teapot a small ecosystem brews
Unaware of its function
I stared at my own reflection
And back it stared
It's eyes glassy
Or was that the sheen of the lacquer?
The smooth ceramic just was
yet my reflection was anything but
In it's simplicity it made a stranger out of me
I am a stranger to myself it seems
And yet I must be a teapot to others
Simplicity or duplicity
Equally deceptive yet difference in kind.
So let's drink tea you and I.

To:  Patty m. and Steve,
cc:   Q

Re: what’s a mediocre man to do,

(freshly mind washed by the
requisite hours of deep sleep,
that washed away the webs
and dreads of yesterday’s
factoids, lactoids, and brain plaques(

so he can perchance, begin again,

(with fresh slate, white chalk screeching
on a freshly sponged whiteboard
~
(or blackboard when he rues the
upcoming with dreaded calendar
notifications notarized notations of
dead lines)

You see Stevie,
this piety poetry piercing of the soul,

(is a daily face washing, soul scrubbing
of two spies (MadMe vs  Metwo) both madder ‘n hell that life has ***-signed him a nother bothersome empty day with the curse
of justifying his existence)

oh yeah baby,
it’s a contest, a contest within,

(and i am appointed and  disappointed to be
the Sec’y of the Interior who has the key to
the broom closet, and is/in charge of his
own corners cleanup, and besides a broom,
he ain't got no tools but stale words and he’s gotta figure out nice smelling new combos to
justifying his occupying his
siloed-sole-soully space place)

in the uni(as in sole, one)verse

universe verse, get it?
445am Monday Monday

His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight

His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design

Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart