welp, i got the idea to express my daily life in a poem — regularly — as a sort of consummate product of my daily life. poetry is the highest form of expression, like i say; so like i say, it seems sort of ‘consummate’ to express my actual life in verse.

to do this daily/often is the idea — we’ll see about daily, but for now, here’s one coin into that wishing-well of “often”:

my days build long, like a pathbreaking breeze,
from the egyptian bricks – & the picayune greed;
the starlets are all bright eyed & doey, like a rainforest pristine,& the hallows come rappin’,
at the modern times eve,
bob dylan hanging laterns, near an otherwise indescript chrome steed,
& my lectures spinning in dust bins, birdsong on a path
crooked for the scenes,

a new pyramid; & a new city;
a new people with new dreams

& cupid palmresting his chin; connecting like lace the kings to the queens,

& a tv fireplace, still caught up in a 50’s marketing scheme,
& the psychology of souls, angry mobs ever-reducing the me’s,

on yea they’re on a path of war, wrecking balls ‘gainst priests,
amid my solemn prayer for meditation
& chords from the verdant green,

& a quick salutation, pops,
you know i’m still swallowing-for-peace,

looking at broken paintings,
of figures never quite cleaned,

& the paths too winding now,
too winding to be seen.

the tree nurserys, & peanut farms,
shooting galleries & thee,

weeping on all sides,
a husband playing cards,
on a path broken stellate just for me.

the pigeons are messengers!
scrolls from the world, i swear this i’ve seen –

& of course, there’s always some new defeat,
playing in iterations on big screen anxiety machines looking for a new fear to hurl,
strewn with the utmost of carelessness around big medium & the littlest me’s —

& *those* on little feet,
ballerina dreams thru the living room world;
& of course, the special people & their elvises,
& the people living in their garages & also on top of the world,

all hallowed round a tree,
(i bought vials of their essential oil),
maybe we’ll light a candle together
comes this Christmas eve diurnial.
                                                  

& the passers-by & conversationalists,
street-voyeurs stare at my wares,
& my diorama’s weak, i know,
there’s better things to compare.

& the elvises humanized
— yes it’s real hair,
& the other vendors are still taut,
one just spit & another still stares,

& lo they spin.
on this music box of despair,
the parades of political events,
tagteam wrestling rings to see who rightly most cares

& the boxing fights
& blunder reels
measuring stacks of despair
all except for a few crossed stars;
one of them’s a coupleyear friend, an old lionous bear

lo shut my shutters,
for a bright-eye they stare,
’cause lo winds the wind, the daily breeze & whistles it scares.

& all hallow’s eve with the trick or treaters,
look: their wax buckets are bare,
till a little plead from a queen,
or i guess she’s a princess this year;

& the candles of mysticism,
flare for the seer,
the weights of indecision,
worn this year in poetry’s sheer.

& the clubs of microphones & stadia,
that too up & coming this year,all haunted by ghosts of greatness,
boring for some, guiding others our cheer —

& lastly, i saw a milkman —
cowprint on his ugly little short-bus,
(i swear it was a lady bug, just like
that UPS commercial — the bumbly ambly roadrut truck)

& i thought those good things come back,like the folk music of love,
the metageneration dreams,
like “What I Dreamt” for the groves asaid above,

last, if like A&W foam,
(now in separation only the suds),
if that breast comes breathing at my door,you KNOW i’ll be cutting a rug.

for now i’ll be practicing, listening to the painted note score above.