intrguing, this global web site,
when you post at your "odd" hours,
somewhere it is early morn, or the
dreading deading of night,
late afternoon, lunchtime, and the,
this poem slow falls to the bottom of
the front page, into a Found, but Lost,
maybe, some die almost, totally untouched,
some shockingly reveberate, some holy revered,
others, break & brate, forlornly, of unlimited loneliness

this mystery I have studied, and freely admit,
after 15 years, under-the-ladder-stand, and
wisdom goes from zero to less and lesser;
it is time for spring cleaning, amidst the chaos,
in/of a turmoiled world, soiled, cleansing the
palate this year, is harder than ever, and the more
I ponder our exploding litany, I swallow acceptance
whole, pre~forgive most sins, and submit to the burden
and know this:
of time and poetry, the poetry of time,
now, more than ever, is the time for poetry

and the time is:
5:44AM
Tue 22 2025
nyc, usa
and the poem is now!