Aristotle at my fingertips,
not locked in soliloquies I may perform,
but heard from an Oxford don I have
in my pocket,
as I lean into each lesson and trudge
up and down my morning
constitutional,
where the firebreak meets
chaparral alive with cottontail
this morning, when I almost said, "it's too hot."

C'mon, walk a mile with me… like
on the road to Emmaus, but Christ, no;
this character,
a soldier in me, about to salt out, bids me,
walk a mile, "not two, one
does the trick."
The thought comes
as a dare from the Ralston Purina guy,
and I stepped onto my trail.
I dare think Aristotle's thoughts after Plato's,
thinking
I could have known this when I was younger,
but not to this degree,

if I had not dropped out, and never knew,
by rote,
to pass a test, that
"All men by nature desire to know."
This is
Curiosity, right? I suspect it is a gift.

The joy we find in sensation, proof
offered the gainsayer,
I say again, that which is good for nothing
never
never
naturally exists, so
what tool forms an eye to notice that…

see, through the window
of my poetic-pathetic e-thoughtic soul
a feathery
family of phoebe birds, flits by,
if that is the proper name
{Tufted-Titmouse, my AI replies},
tails reflecting a smokey blue hue,
they swoop and flutter past;
I see
in a non-imaged flashpast pattern
from a time in the summer of 1969…

Disneyfied trails
from Cinderella's dressing room
scene, not seen, but reminded of seeing,
the pattern, in this phantomind dance,
being witnessed now, as
this old soldier once saw it
performed by bluer birds than these…

Time skipper
shifts to another bubble intersecting mine
and

I hear a worried neighbor fret about the fire.
I almost say,
"One of the benefits of being
backedup to the cloud,

nothing to lose."

But I remember, she collects purses and shoes.

Here’s hoping that you never lose that accent
That once brought me so much joy
That I forgot all about the war outside-
No guns ringing in my min,
Just words of yours blowing in my ear
Like a cherry blossom wind
In the morning
With the sun climbing up the ivy
And pressing his face against window
To look in envy at how you love me.

Here’s hoping you never lose that accent
That I knew when I was just a boy,
Oh very young
Playing in your room
And there were lines falling from you mouth
Like orange water from the jug
All over my chest
You froze my heart, baby,
Froze it so I couldn’t breath.
Something about the way you fed me
Made me want to believe.

I hope you kept that accent you had,
The one that used to drive me mad
When we were both eighteen
And you were the only woman I had ever seen,
In the days when I would lie with you
Knowing in my heart that I would die with you
In the days before I ever knew
That I was, in fact, only born to lose you.

Did you decide who I was before or after you spoke to me?

Did you decide to speak to me - or not - because of how I was dressed, what I looked like, my job, my education, my choice of beverage, my height, my accent, or my scintillating conversation with your plus one about the benefits of suburban parking spaces?

And who are you? Do you know? Are you sure? Did you dress yourself or did your date choose that sweater for you? Did you grow that ironic beard for her? Are you happy in your work, or just pretend to be to keep the peace? Did you miss taking up that scholarship because your family moved out of state?
Did someone ask you to hold their glass while they whipped to the loo? Do you slouch to compensate for those years of dance lessons which make you look too...straight? Are you trying to hide that southern twang? Do you talk ******* when conversing with strangers and tend to come across as a complete *****?

I thought so, go figure!

haaaay you???
you must got me some kind confused?
caused
i mean
did you think i was ever gonna love you,
trust YOU.
better gon'on find another little TRICK
to play cause i ain't no trick.
by gollie you better find you 'nother one.