Each day there is the morning walk
to gather the morning news in print

An amble back to a rocking chair
comfort for consuming coffee
and attempts to ingest current events

Soon the coffee is gone
followed by another cup
News columns are skimmed
like a dragon-fly skits across
the still of an evening pond

Skittish has become a life-style
concentration a foreign word
completion evasive
By nighttime there is
an abundance of projects,
goals, desires left to await
revisitation - revisitation never happens
as  new distractions fulfill
the daily routine
of living in the moment

for Jeannie Kristufek Hawrysz who once quoted me Shakespeare -
"Of all the words in the universe, when stated thrice, only one royal above all gleams best, an uncoded mathematical tripartite repetitive stating:
love love love this."
----------------------------

third attempt and just not happening
then recall a Ben Folds hand-me-down
heard on Tuesday, passed onto me by Sara B.
about writer’s block

“Kick the editor out of the room”

the best don’t even flow,
they fall out of ya, rough and tumbling,
screaming did ya get that,
are ya keeping up,
you can be the self-editing-I need-perfection roadblock
or the delivery guy, the one with the towel and the scissors, who brings ya a clean new baby, and/or a veggie pizza,
which ya gonna pick?

another nougat nugget:
when you’re stuck, write about the block,
what’s sticking you; one would have thought
some one thousand five hundred poems later,
this one would have been midwifed a long, long time ago,  
but at 4:32am, it’s all I got

rather than throw false news confetti on myself
from the rafters that don’t exist in a citified apartment,
I’ll reward myself with some
rock n’ pop,
a revisitation to the scene of the crime, and listen quiet like and maybe leak back to prone sleep,
in hopes that the rest of the gang,
hoping the words to a  poem-in-transit,
“confetti is just tomorrow’s garbage”
gets off at my dreamy new subway stop


should the wordy birdies shotgun come sneaking in
thru the correct ear
i.e. not the sunken pillow one,
so I have half a fat chance of
recalling its dimensions in an hour, 
when I wake up-officially,


fat chance

later, like 4:56am

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2471979/confetti-is-just-tomorrows-garbage/

Blustery , midnight blue and black
We go way back
Inversions in the key of life and
mute hopelessness at times
We're 'old hat' , you and I* ........

It astonishes me to consider
The thousand thousand trials and triumphs
that had to be part of our paths
To ensure we'd walk together
but the consideration is fleeting
As nothing in the past carries much relevance now
Scars have healed or been forgotten
Remembered slights and grudges have been summarily dismissed
Even the glow of nostalgia has been cooled to embers
All has been relinquished to the before times
Warranting only an occasional quick perusal
A momentary revisitation of prior life
Soon to be left in the past
Excepting the recognition that everything aligned
To lead my present tense to you

I

I have seen an
Aztec owl, kissed by the eternal
kaleidoscope of morning,
robed in Yellow air

Light escapes its hungry beak
and joins the Sun in harmony,
break of day rekindles the brickwork of archaic memory,

The Owl has lantern eyes which have witnessed innumerable births,

     -and the cultivating of this cherry-wreathed Valley, where we eat and
   write music for the soil's tender womb
                      
Opal condolensces for sleep
and sadness, the Owl gifts a necklace embroidered with apology, coiled 'round your neck, in times of gladness and tragedy

II
      
...and do not fear, for cradle, ring, and tomb
   all repeat in cosmic fashion
  
            (you will eventually return here, to the sea, you always have)
            
          Remember the attic where youth was stored away, to be replaced with exotic patterns, coral bulbs, cotton and laughter
        
     There, lay a glasswork child for your chest to keep safe. Your past. Your past of plums and skirted dancers, desert glow, Caribbean sleep.

(your mind rests its quiet curtains, but the classical radio station can still be heard)

III

An owl of sunset mosaics
     enters your dream, illuminating
the revisitation to a Mexico City
  that was flooded for Mountains
  
           ..soon to recede and quake, when Winter's spirit fades once more, there you will unearth
            Tenochtitlan.

have you ever seen the closed door and
wondered what you left behind?
seen the shadows shuffle and gingerly
brushed the doorknob--hoping to find it unlocked but
you can't pull people like books off of shelves,
once read, there is no revisitation, no speculation,
people are finite, with many chapters of their own but
often so very few in ours

but doors are not the end and neither are people,
some things that are tied are knotted with love
as clasps keep the thieves out--
if you haven't noticced, fences define the property
but never the individual,
the world is big and we are limited to
so very few things, being as small and of varying strengths--
however,

the horizon is not a line,
sometimes we see ourselves as the end
and perhaps we are with such a short reach
but that does not mean we will never see the rest
that does not mean that every door will be closed.

Lacking that quality
Quantity
Haunting me
Won’t let me sleep
It just instigates
Tauntingly
Forcing me back
To the drawing board
Bland
Staring blankly ahead
With a pen in my hand
It just has to be moved,
Be expressed,
Be expelled
All attempts at rebellion
Are ruthlessly quelled
For I've spelled it out
Countless times,
Infinite ways
It still beckons me back
To the halcyon days
Or the tragic,
Traumatic
Past, revisitation
What’s one more
To add to
Its zero summation

my, my... haven't these people become, oh so audacious, and they believe themselves, so firmly placed, so crown-corone: the crown above a crown assured, that they alone reside with cradle of history... my my! aren't they just the brats we all were looking for! they alone, are the erasing force of "mystery", to combat "mythology" with their own "plagiarism" of said facts?! wonder behold! the 8th clarity, that of the english language itself! kindest gentlemen! i implore! salvage your honours, let the titan sink! no?! marvelous! who are these gehenna baboons tricking? we are assured clemency, are we not?! these people seriously believe they are the sole inheritors of history! oh no, this is a europe within a europe type of game... i have my history, just as much as you, have yours... you erase the pride i have in mine, i erase the pride you have in yours... simple as 1 + 1 = 2... you squalid ****-pants think that a brexit will make you look better? no **** sherlock, you have the honey! but that makes you segregational in politick? i don't think... making it look nice will not make the belgian choc-makers sense a false deal in hands...

you have to learn one thing about the english,
they're polite, i give them that,
but they're also two-faced hydra-thisted liars...
i once took to liking them,
but after a while: i took to liking them:
by hating them;
  they just became these annoying
gnats of purpose, something you'd
rather shake off, rather than keep.

and like all good western societies -
the history had to be upkept -
    western europe mattered -
eastern europe was... "exotica" -
i love these palm tree jerkers off -
makes me feel right on time with
harrod's shelving oysters...
real bwitish -
        cognac in the congo while
the belgians spontaneously sprang
into the vocals of: aussie aussie!
oi oi oi!

wankers;
i just keep imagining shoving a 100
toothpicks alongside 1000 toenail
clippings up their gobs to prove a
"point", although none would have been
reached.

the **** do you mean foul mouth?
last time i checked you had bigger problems,
via dyslexia... foul mouth that
first.

and to me shakespeare is only macbeth:

open locks,
whoever knocks -

open skies -
whoever cries: a lone wolf -

one in every one of seen stars -
whoever the day unlocks -

open skies,
and with star a breakfast
made, least one, least two,
least one count
worth two passing days
of feud...

open skies,
a sunrise and a set,
twinned culprit of the hour -
upon both the hubris
of unfashionable "concern" -
that they may settle
a least, while gambling
the most of said affair:

      to dear malevolent
search of conquest -
reignite, the revisitation of
the endearing power-laden
desire for:
           kept quest -
of arm in arm -
         with both body,
as too with the shadow -
that medium of contrast.

so much so...
longinus podbipięta*
               herbu zerwikaptur -
to have owned a sword that
cut off three heads of
teutonic knights, and later three
heads of ottoman turks...
to have made that righteous plea
for puritanical reasons -
that medieval rite of honouring
the chaste and the brave...

but in western europe,
no few if either if not any histories
meet within the frameworks of
the three days that history
encompasses:
yesterday, today & tomorrow...

for all i know:
slavic languages have clear syllables -
and even clearer letter to state -
if the prime be french babylonian
muddles - then english follows second -
these are the twin languages of
neo-babylon -
   with their muddled syllable "chemistry" -
they're so unclear in what they "want"
their languages almost resemble
their: women...
    slavic languages are known via
the mongol to have a chinese
ethos of clear: distinct: syllable clarity -
since they possess a clear unit
division of syllables into letters...

seriously... all it took was to ask me:

sh = sz
                 as ch = cz -

                yzwz -

god is a word solely prescribed for
thesaurus rex -
       god is anti-grammatically categorised
as mathematically vector -

   god is not a dictionary word,
it's a thesaurus word....

     its grammatical construct is neither
verb (prayer) nor noun (allahu akbar) -
  
        it's either antonym or synonym...

and by the time i've posted this,
i've drank my *****, ate my moussaka,
and my mexican napkin bread,
and said: hello tomorrow,
hello tomorrow: goodnight.

I can't recoup
the harvest
of youth's ***** days
the green field
I trod upon
is now but parched land
pitiful remnants
of my memory

that's nothing left
to reclaim amidst the ruin
of love lost and hopes abandoned
the now is sombre and  bereft

millions of words
have been written
and spoken
they only weigh heavy
on the heart, fragmented
and torn broken
how foolish was youth
to believe love
was the garden of Eden

late winter is laden
with melancholy
and pathos-  old age
weeps in surrender
to time's cruel ravage
how grim and bleak
is its message

when the harvest
is over and the past
is a forgotten dream
what's left to salvage?

seated by the bedside of a

said street...a flower girl hunkers

down a misreading of color, that

claims family to spring's own.

Chaplin fidgets takes--wala, and it's

ramifying  light years in black &

white, yin and yang proposing to

one another at the same time.

rumpus of a penguin-footed mage.

production costs haunted by the

obsessive revisitation of a moment in

time, that only the right take could

liberate.

rheumatoid arthritis of bad directions,

as skyscrapers nicked by forwarding

motion.

a car door interrupts soundlessness.

the syllable of a first fold--emitting off a local

screen.

Charlie's obstinacy from the first flit of onscreen

voices.

the flower opens...the flower girl smiles.

more overpoweringly than she weeps.

supposedly confusing Charlie's purchase,

offering change to an unwitting elderly gentleman

that enters a car whose door slams, startling

cinematic history.

too spare for the things she thought she

couldn't see...

as it were, Charlie could not abscond

from the blind flower girl.

he actually fired and rehired the same

actress.

she finally doused him with a flower ***,

as he attempted to sit beside her.