Fri, J 10 l, 2025    12:20 NYC
walking for flowers
                ~~~~
the steely irony is not bittersweet,
nor is it
white horseradish Passover stinging,
yes, the slow perfunctory defunctory,
measurable in cc’s and centimeters,
drip drop drippings frittered away by
the brains self-destruction of
cycling and recycling,
yes, and dying,
that occurs
all **** day long,
daily between the sunrise and sunset

Yet, here, right here, poetry words
somehow
fall freely,
no hesitation,
from brain to page,
no coitus-interrupt-us,
as if I was composing,
am decomposing,
mine own psalm

no need for proofs,
it was lying in wait for
sweet release,
a trigger pulled
to assemble &
stand and deliver the freely
given, albeit stolen goods

but in the ordinary course of human living,
I, fumble, stumble,
anger from my gut rumbles
up in actual screams of frustration
as the individual word sought is sight unseen
in a forest of hedgerows purposed
to interrupt free flowing
verbal animation, invading excitations

cannot remember
ten digits of mine own
cellphone number,
but the address of
my residence from early childhood
trips off the tongue, lightly and fantastically
and uselessly

the name of what’s their names
is a rock star
be a solid stone, large pebble,
s t u c k in my gourd,
or the little strength needed
in your fingertips ,
to grasp the individual coffee beans
you just dropped,
scattered over two rooms,

strength that arrived snd went,
and the cells of your body parts,
ask you
what’s going on, going wrong?

making lists is inoperative,
for the whereabouts
of said list is curiously
gone to the devils on my back,
cut out to
the dead cells that were once a warty grey,
now a withering deadening and
deafening, deadening, defeated
black hole
(******* in data for destruction)

seven generations of accumulations
erode,
chip chirped & chipped away now so oft,
onto those ***** city sidewalks
they fall and to dust,
to down ground, by steps of
passer-overs who care not a
whit,
what's that word that
rhymes to
writ?

it is imprisoned on
Devil’s Island with
what’s-his-name

took out the fixings to
make an antipasto salad,
placed all upon the counter ,
but couldn’t
locate the fig goat cheese, and
no it was not on my nigh-table,  
nor hid in the fridge,

grrr, that fridge that I fully emptied,
twice,
for twas sitting on the counter,
snickering
the very first item removed,
and also
to be
the first forgot

high to low, and revere course,
having not
left the abode!?!,
where is my watch,
so hunt for the smart watch awaiting
my lovely wrist,
not to be found,
for it was well
hidden from searching eyes,
already on my wrist,
hiding upside down,
beneath my shirt cuff,,
announcing publicly it’s
smarter than its owner

admire a painting upon a wall,
but say nada to the world,
for the word mural
has evaporated, an
evaporated not no more
subjective Objective

intentionally
cut, rip off the pockets from every coat,
leaving in each but 
 one,
so I can be comforted
when wallet searching,
that endless patting repetitive
of pockets visible and hidden,
has now but a singular solution
thus,
may yield resultant missing object
sought and more quickly
found,
maybe

a thousand poem bits o’ honey
fully finished, or just a phrase,
needing a body, heart and head,
lie in a dank and dark
dungeoned file,
Former Memories

but the where when
and the critical tickle,
the why,
formation is still needed
for them to be despatched
to their fate,
unless it’s
“just because”
a better reasoning,
other than my
own guilty
diminishing capacity
“is no longer in service”

p.s let me save poor yocum
complaining this miss/ive
is too long,
for there!
I’ve done it for him