and sometimes….

no need to mess with it
give the mousing hand the rest of the night off

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hard to go wrong with dewy petals in the night

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which reminds me

A tidal shift apparently came along while I dozed or moseyed about my mundane business. Might be part of the internet price; being sucked into a world of memes and gifs, most of which I just don’t get, probably because of age; grew from that hazy gap that some say is overlap between boomer and x. So I do some recollection exercises. Try to recall all the music I’ve loved or the pictures or books or writings that raised excitement or inspiration. What is most conspicuous is the absence of ever caring whether works I liked would or would not qualify as ‘works of art’. Trying to figure out when such concerns became an issue worthy of the time to give a shit about. No, I will never self-identify as an ‘artist’ and probably not ‘poet’ either. Just like to mess around and be sensitive to when to stop if something pops up I happen to like for no apparent, discernible, reason.

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No it isn’t art. It’s that crazy thing once known as Fun.

make a pencil doodle, open a free paint program, dribble some colors, find the smudger, add a photograph,¬†and mess around until moved to say, “hey that’s pretty cool” or until the mouse arm falls off – definitely gotta look into getting a tablet – not because I am an artist but to simply stave further mouse-usage pain. Because I just can’t quit messing with this.

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I Hate I

I know I am out of the zone I love
when the touch is lost to the policy
set in stone relatively long ago,
stiffer than a religious commandment.

This ancient policy was to avoid
at any cost, and be willing to pay
the highest, harshest, sacrificial price
to guard against autobiography

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heavens, universe, someone, whoever, we have a situation here

Should closer relations experience
an advancement towards a layman term,
a preliminary saying may say
these are rather rare finds; might require
patience fit for endurance through heavy
clouds gathered for nothing but revelry;
no offense against revelry or clouds
(suddenly the poet experienced
the usual train-of-thought
intrusion courtesy of
personal space inconsideration)
But these clouds are pissing a poet off.

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Since interest seems inferred
and assuming the eager
beams mean the radiance is genuine,

there is territory the rabble
more or less never grace: cases and shelves
that seethe with an inexhaustible
supply of what the knowing know

as the stuff most choice for certain receptors
that tend to forget there is more to life
than year-in and year-out hibernation.

Let the finger lightly travel the spine,
Listen for the fragrant sigh of welcome.

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