(on being a poem written when
threaded to a coffee fed morning)
oh how I Love phrases
I get mesmerized by them
a tubule fool languid almost
named my daughter
after the Norse mischief god
somehow she knew
little spiral-ettes, whorlings
places I go 2 seek laughter
like hair being let down
every day we lather ourselves
words off shelves
phases of what
we buy and sell
shell ore hell
and man hole covers
we're sold as having in our souls
steamy sewer-ies
belief relief in ignorance
as innocence dances here
a hollow graphic
a leer clear view technology
being rapturous when
not having to need to know
what a spiritual elevation is or was
to see logan or adam
for that matter
mad hatter, is
still running ...
(the quietude of a library is a sanctuary and
can make a poet, quite misty eyed and horny)
with arrow dead rollick
after the kick tire test
of living tissue strength
I read and write
in jalopy style loop friendly interludes
yes this is still my blessed morning ritual
as coffee wets what gets me through
to the other side of sleep
of something I need to nap through
what makes me pause and wonder
like your eyes do my muse
when they catch me
a right gone
bright starlight
to tombstone
letters I've sent
or meant to
all stop here ...
(waiting for
inspiration)
EJR ©
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