plodding person waddles to the kitchen,
just like a Pavlovian dog morn salivating,
the first of
little rituals
that holds his disparate pieces together,
her alarm thrice weekly wakes the man,
reminding him of all the things she does,
to keep herself, healthy and attractive,
of course poet sinner has, as his wont,
has been up prematurely in response
two little wordly words flew into his head,
from parts unknown, that
"little rituals"
would make a finery of a poem title,
and to ensure the timely delivery of her
'chips and dips,' a poetic liberty he provides,
for her wake~up compote of black strong
carribean brewed beans, French prune,
kashi-go-lean, and the remote controller,
ok, ok get to the poem already, his nanny
nags, don't keep all these good people
who for it, are awaiting, <nml>
*this stuff of life, this glue, tiniest of motions,
that leeches into our daily make-up emotions,
not just our awakening, but throughout the
every minute of
days of the entirety of our lives,
starting at
our earliest consciousness, long before we
understand and can spell this miracle of
c o n s c i o us n e s s*
*laying out our utensils, wallet+watch,
spectacles etc., morning a-priori, kissing
the kid's to sleep in their own specialized
particular good night manner, stepping
on certain cracks on the way to work,
just to say fu to those who threaten us
with ****** bad luck, and being annoyed,
that someone has parked in your fav spot*
*spots, yes these spots that are the building
blocks of our*
little rituals
*that build us up in the largest of ways,
of an elegant web of survival methodologies*
*that stitch the woof and warp of the length
of our lives into a a complex tapestry that
hangs in the living rooms in our own museum,
a surface to hang upon, attach, the kid's photos,
the first school drawings, the flower froze in time,
from the occasions of our history, where all who
pass by just for a second pause, review, and utter
a satisfying eyed glance, to be agreed upon these,
these are the things that matter*
*and though not consulted,
deeply grateful to
the muse(s) who inserted this
complex simplicity notional of*
little rituals *into my soul for me to maintain
one more of these delights, otherwise known as,*
the first poem of the day
and so the living of our ritualized lifes begins once more…
9:06am
Oct 3/twenty five
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 12:27 PM UTC
plodding person waddles to the kitchen,
just like a Pavlovian dog morn salivating,
the first of
little rituals
that holds his disparate pieces together,
her alarm thrice weekly wakes the man,
reminding him of all the things she does,
to keep herself, healthy and attractive,
of course poet sinner has, as his wont,
has been up prematurely in response
two little wordly words flew into his head,
from parts unknown, that
"little rituals"
would make a finery of a poem title,
and to ensure the timely delivery of her
'chips and dips,' a poetic liberty he provides,
for her wake~up compote of black strong
carribean brewed beans, French prune,
kashi-go-lean, and the remote controller,
ok, ok get to the poem already, his nanny
nags, don't keep all these good people
who for it, are awaiting, <nml>
*this stuff of life, this glue, tiniest of motions,
that leeches into our daily make-up emotions,
not just our awakening, but throughout the
every minute of
days of the entirety of our lives,
starting at
our earliest consciousness, long before we
understand and can spell this miracle of
c o n s c i o us n e s s*
*laying out our utensils, wallet+watch,
spectacles etc., morning a-priori, kissing
the kid's to sleep in their own specialized
particular good night manner, stepping
on certain cracks on the way to work,
just to say fu to those who threaten us
with ****** bad luck, and being annoyed,
that someone has parked in your fav spot*
*spots, yes these spots that are the building
blocks of our*
little rituals
*that build us up in the largest of ways,
of an elegant web of survival methodologies*
*that stitch the woof and warp of the length
of our lives into a a complex tapestry that
hangs in the living rooms in our own museum,
a surface to hang upon, attach, the kid's photos,
the first school drawings, the flower froze in time,
from the occasions of our history, where all who
pass by just for a second pause, review, and utter
a satisfying eyed glance, to be agreed upon these,
these are the things that matter*
*and though not consulted,
deeply grateful to
the muse(s) who inserted this
complex simplicity notional of*
little rituals *into my soul for me to maintain
one more of these delights, otherwise known as,*
the first poem of the day
and so the living of our ritualized lifes begins once more…
9:06am
Oct 3/twenty five
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