Give me some words
And I'll give you three.
No, no, not that one
I can't love you if
I miss you.

the great big metronome in the sky,
as those of a Floydian persuasion are wont to call it,
tick, tick, ticks,
with a switchblade intransigence,
for a docile audience, rows of anesthetized deer...
Mr. Whogivesa and Mrs. ****,
and their son,
with the hyphenated last name,
living the namesake...
"don't talk to strangers?"
why not show them the sleeve,
where one's heart resides...
melodrama,
the most lucrative business move,
(then why are most panhandlers still panhandlers?
i guess it's the luck of the draw)
...takes after his Father most,
that being he always stops short,
that extra step,
much too extra to take,
a voyage in itself...
in his standstill,
where the metronome ticks, ticks, ticks,
and only few deer are left awake,
by the dull-glow of drug,
a voice, between drags of a cigarette:

"kid, skipping stones across a frozen lake,
is not that impressive,
but convincing everyone it is? well..."

"It was... magical." They would gush
Stars orbiting just for them
A moment where two minds
Choose to be one
You can roll your eyes
Say you've heard the story five times-
Six now
But they aren't even listening, they can't
Above the crashing waves
Of their passion

This party wasn't made for two
Gravitating toward one another
Not even socialising with the outside lifeforms
The moon and his sun
The day and her night
The sand and his ocean
Ten plus ten fingers still equals ten
Two hands superglued like crafts
In the middle
Money and papers forgotten
A universe built like a cottage roof
Above two bodies
One soul

Ten years pass
And suddenly one home becomes two
All the secret smiles
And inside jokes
Are screams and shouts and curses
That you think echo across the street
But live inside your head

That first story
The way they met
So long ago
Is the story you wish you'd hear
Instead of this exit song
That will never stop playing
Until one or the other
Finally gives up
Leaves orbit
To be the only star
Of their lonely galaxy.

Morning’s Minute Meditation

I send my heart this morn,
Not with emotion but with intellect –
For I suspect
                        that’s quite okay.

One may think one’s way,
Not necessarily emote,
For one connects
                                 in any case,
Each with a modus operandi.

In conclusion,
Not to worry how it’s done
Every bit a hit
(as in reward for effort).
Just one minute needed.

Morning’s Minute Meditation 11.12.2017
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; To The Child Mystic II;
Arlene Corwin