not many of us try trying to master tossing ***** rhythmically over and over into the upper atmosphere successfully
but life, shoot, that’s another thing, making juggling a life skill that comes with the hard crash of a ball dropped and all the glue, can’t return pristine to what now is an edgy design of a flawed life cracked up to be a mis~fortune telling as *a map of cracks run rampant rampaging, ramp aging,
ominously
(1) I am in possession of a reservoir of 1000+ unpublished poems; the reservoir of drafts have matured, aged, to the point, or deteriorated to the point, that it’s time for them to move on, upward, downward, but definitely out…