That was so yesterday…

And so it begins, not really fully lit, but the motor is turning over. The day, with its same intents and lost causes coming through the petina of barely broken limbs of trees scattered and no-telling when the digital signal will come back in.

I am married, in your pocket

there is no telling

where we’ll go

with all our dreams

intact

besotted

with a deliberate

memory

still

taken

too many things

are trying

to get

my attention

it seems

but then again

who cares?

 

It would be entitled “Autumn Morning,” a) if this were autumn and not a revisiting of summer, L.A.-style, where it’s hot then cold

then hot again and now cold, so everyone can get sick at least once this winter.

or b)

every poet c. 1957 on (with their head in the oven, or not) has written an ode to a autumn morning (blek), which

automatically makes it suspect (thanks Kurt Cobain for being the poster child of such cynical branding).

The post-modernists would go deliberate and call it WINTERTIME (sadness). On-the-nose but still manages to leave you wondering,

make you PARANOID for reading their

shitty verse.

How did that happen, again?

Here I am getting my A+s and Fs, but not necessarily in that order.

 

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Tags: a.m. pages, emotional rescue, inspiration, Muse, naked ape, poem, savoir-faire

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