"my day will be different today"

she declares, when she sees herself hidden in
in a passing spending and breaking broken
drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem,
stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident

gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines,
that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground,
where the words and letters assemble,
where the firemen train,
adding logs, love, accursed ego,
to the hearth,
steady on burning, to practice putting out the
ohms and uh-uh's
of electrical resistance that
your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation
has...** ** **
sparkling stabbing mirror

this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting

but your simple complementation
fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity,
because it is a
provocation stabbing piercing  a self-questioning, of
why to write I need pen paper and ink,
and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial

the Zola j'accuse
of every poet, even the gone-ones,
looking down
at highest bar in poetry!

did I really do that?

even for a brief moment,
a nanosecond,
me words
modify the entire continental shelf
that another writer occupies,
change its axis, the rate of spin,
the angle of another's
solitary human's day

nah  

all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng
a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and
let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest

so I guess it could be true
what you wrote,

but about me

"my day will be different today"

and why I practice this
wonderfully ridiculous
craft,
cause the pay is so
**** good

10:36am