plodding person waddles to the kitchen,
just like a Pavlovian dog morn salivating,
the first of
little rituals
that holds his disparate pieces together,

her alarm thrice weekly wakes the man,
reminding him of all the things she does,
to keep herself, healthy and attractive,
of course poet sinner has, as his wont,
has been up prematurely in response
two little wordly words flew into his head,
from parts unknown, that
"little rituals"
would make a finery of a poem title,

and to ensure the timely delivery of her
'chips and dips,' a poetic liberty he provides,
for her wake~up compote of black strong
carribean brewed beans, French prune,
kashi-go-lean, and the remote controller,

ok, ok get to the poem already, his nanny
nags, don't keep all these good people
who for it, are awaiting, <nml>

this stuff of life, this glue, tiniest of motions,
that leeches into our daily make-up emotions,
not just our awakening, but throughout the
every minute of
days of the entirety of our lives,
starting at
our earliest consciousness, long before we
understand and can spell this miracle of
c o n s c i o   us   n e s s

laying out our utensils, wallet+watch,
spectacles etc., morning a-priori, kissing
the kid's to sleep in their own specialized
particular good night manner,  stepping
on certain cracks on the way to work,
just to say fu to those who threaten us
with ****** bad luck, and being annoyed,
that someone has parked in your fav spot

spots, yes these spots that are the building
blocks of our
little rituals
that build us up in the largest of ways,
of an elegant web of survival methodologies

that stitch the woof and warp of the length
of our lives into a a complex tapestry that
hangs in the living rooms in our own museum,
a surface to hang upon, attach, the kid's photos,
the first school drawings, the flower froze in time,
from the occasions of our history, where all who
pass by just for a second pause, review, and utter
a satisfying eyed glance, to be agreed upon these,
these are the things that matter

and though not consulted,
deeply grateful to
the muse(s) who inserted this
complex simplicity notional of
little rituals into my soul for me to maintain
one more of these delights, otherwise known as,
the first poem of the day

and so the living of our ritualized lifes begins once more…


9:06am
Oct 3/twenty five

met Presidents,
kings and queens plenty,
so many princes and princess,
each one, most impressive
to their themselves.
but never knew an Empress…till now~(k)now

twice for emphasis, but better yet, enraptured,
her commandments, demand immediate readings,
never demanding solicitation, just a whispering
"come hither fool~baby"

the paucity of my words grow paler when I compare,
my tongue tied bonds, and I consider abandonment
of what gives me sparks of belief that tomorrow
will still be worth it, that I can create, something
worth sharing, and the words come up in the throat,
abandon all hope, ye who dare read the Empress

I know, you accuse me of exaggerated exaggeration,
plead the Fifth, the right not to self-incriminate,
pointless to demure, make an appoint~moment for later,
when by silence surrounded, everyone gone, re~Read,
out loud chewing every soft obsidian granule, drink
pure water, and curse myself again, who knew, eclectic
electric, as they jay jelly roll (😉) off my was just a few bytes
away, head in hands, equal parts of joy and despair
parting my hair, drawing lines in my scalp, and the
demon muse gleefully, perhaps, at last, thinking mmm…
this will be his last
First Poem of the Day (FPOTD0

and now the day  a)  mences b) ensses