Hear those Friday beats drop
from hard to soft
as seconds elongate,
minim rests to pause
until all too belatedly
you are freed to remember

Days turn into nights
An endless labyrinth of
Empty weeks and months
With no semblance of life

Years go by, memories not made
Everything STOPS...
People, Planes & Countries too
To bear the wrath of Animalcules

what are we
even doing?

I can't
promise you
anything

I'm leaving,
I have to
do this

I've never
been on my
own before
and I want to
see if I
can do it

I can't be what
you want
me to be

if it's meant
to be
it's meant
to be

I saw your
doppelgänger
at the bar
last night

it's not
that I don't want
to see you,
it's just that
I don't
have time

I would
say we should
grab a beer
and catch up
but
I'm only in
town for
a little bit
and my family
comes first

you could've
reached out
to me too
you know

you have
my number,
I don't
understand
why you
stopped
talking to me?

you know
these matchstick men
inked on wrecked angle blank page
you know these
women con trap
that act on command
because  match stick men
light their fires
more lovingly
if they pick up  that log
bound in the fog and burned
shore lights were on
sea  not at home
see **** thought less
about the other
or the fact shes a mother
of four peeping eyes
with heart shaped by minds
helped less when shes blind
not of your kind
from the other side of the tracks
where we don't got the backs
havenots
got a chance
when we sabotage
her glance
at any semblance of romance
cos we can
I guess thats why they call
you the man
in the know
of how does the garden grow
that they sow

Poet, can I reliably conclude that things are good, since you have stopped (estoppel) writing poetry?

~for her, whose muse has fled, but not to Canada, one more last time!~

<>

a writers block of a two-step dancing duration,
we stumble on her green light status,
she’s alive, she’s up in Canada, so
do the obligatory checkin in, checking out

and that It occurs my next question is
a superlative poem title challenge for
the lady with the eyebrow extensions,
and other ways she found to make me laugh

so for her, for me, and perhaps for you,
I commission myself with a task, knowing
not where this will demise eventually

can I reliably conclude that things are good,
since you have stopped writing poetry?

which is a ****** self-mockery cause my dopamine
levels are ***** high when Mercury is yet in
retrograde, my serotonin is sinkhole sinking
in anticipation of Saturn’s Return returning,
the solstice just passed by, my full moon
phase is super glue stuck in the fourth
house of/if the rising sun

if things ain’t *****, why write?
is its therapeutic healing power aside,
maybe, baby, one, or two, can one, reliably
conclude that things are good, now that
you have stooped to estop
writing your poetry?

God I hope so otherwise I’ve embarrassed myself,
wisely forgot to dedicate this you-inspired-silliness
(by name, gender, bio markers, tribal incantation)
with a serious undertone, and
a writ of estoppel attached,
but you know already this
ones just for you,
and your many
toddler children
to whom you
attend to daily,
as they draw
strength from
sun and rain,
dark soil and
you.

natty

p.s. always use your turning signals

word  stopped
as you gazed

it feared
to be told

and was pronounced
was  wrong

so it stopped