Tag Archives: poem

Pennies

Evidently, Congress can’t admit they are worth less.
But, software could force them into the irrelevancy of retirement.
The key would be.
Don’t ever think pennies.
Dollar-cost-average them from the total price.
Half the purchases get a break on one
or two cents.
Round the final price to the nearest nickel.
Every receipt shows what happened.
The other half pays a penny or two, extra.
This time.
And the next, on average, they get the break.
No one brings home copper when buying food.
Voluntary merchants re-design point-of-sale purchases to eliminate the penny.
It follows.
Congress doesn’t have to lead.

What comes first?

In bycicle?
The ‘i’ or the ‘y’?
It must be the ‘i’.
Bicycle.
That looks better. I just need to remember.
It’s the same ‘b-i’ as bi-annual, or bi-sexual, or bi-headed. Because there are two wheels.
Why do I mess it up so consistently?
I blame my great-grandfather. My mom’s, dad’s, dad.
He changed Bykowski to Byke. My mother’s maiden name.
A family name. Damn it!
I know how to spell the family name.
But every time I try to spell ‘bicycle’, my brain inserts the ‘y’ before the ‘i’.
Will I ever get it right without thinking about it?

Scientific Rumor

A rumor crawled along the grapevine, into my ear.

It was presented as scientific fact.

The human faculty, for music, predates language.

 

Early cavemen played music before they could speak in sentences.

I don’t know if it is true.  But, suppose it is.

Plausible.

 

Hands clapping and slapping.

Beating out complex rhythms.

Could poetry exist, otherwise?

Tempe February

=== 6:52 PM ===

XB  Ooh.  I just snagged the writing table.

I love its suitability.

I’m surprised I am here this late.  But, only as I would have expected this day-to-play.  After a couple of blah-days, I could feel an energy, even as I lay in bed, this morning.  Perfect-days often beckon, in this manner.

And yes, I was achy.  But, not active achy.

Past achy.  On its way out.

And I was mindful again of food.  I squeezed a lemon into water.  Drank that, as my morning quench.

Then I picked some tomatoes from the garden.

These were planted in late September.  They matured into December, setting lots of heavy, green fruit.  And there it stayed, waiting for the days, to warm enough for red.

A few started turning in late January.

But, in a Tempe-February, spring is very apparent.  Weeds and peach blossoms.  In another month, we’ll be in full citrus-bloom.

And the tomatoes know it.  There’s a bunch of big red fruits on those eighteen plants.  Six cherry, six Champion, six Celebrity.  Every day I eat as many as I want.

Wen Ling kept asking me why I planted eighteen?

Because.  Every day I eat as many as I want.  Three, four, even five, big ones.  And another half-dozen cherries, as snacks.

This is the perfect time of year.  I can keep the windows and doors open, with temps so pleasant.  And when I get hungry, I just stroll into the back yard, through weeds, and look for the reddest ones.

A little sea-salt.  Yum.

And, dessert is blood-orange.  Studied, then picked.

I need to eat dinner. But, this reminds me.

Last night, I followed-up, what I wrote in my journal, about where-to-eat-dinner, by eating-dinner at Chillie’s.  Is that what I imagine I wrote?

 

I had the flatbread, a holographic-image of my hunger.  And a beer.

Home before ten.

 

Bed before two.  Just after one.

I thought I had cleared, my belching, before sleep.

But there was this one, final, statement on-dinner.

It haunted my morning.

 

It startled me.  I was choking.

I was awake.  And, I was aware.

I was choking.

 

I have been here before.  Believe me.

It’s annoying, when it happens, now.

 

So I recognized the presence-of-mind I was in.  Gradually, when these things happen.

Usually, after a food-combination, not conducive-to-sleep.

I am calmer, with each, stupid, incident.

 

Today, this morning, just before five.

I had the presence of mind to pray, to Meta-Mind.

For calm.

 

I sat.

Up, in bed.  Eyes closed.

Strange and true.

 

My inability-to-inhale contained a calm.

I just had to wait this out.

I just needed to meditate on the experience.

 

Breathing will resume….  Any minute, now.

 

My fault.

Eating breaded-goodness, with beer, before dreams.

A poetic, yet realistic, statement.

A foundation, for Conscious-Writing.

Conscious-Writing is Conscious-Thinking.

 

The above-two-lines should be written on my blog as, a poetic, yet realistic, statement.

That could be the title.

The words, trailing the first comma, of the first sentence, of this stanza.

 

Realistic, in the sense that.

If Know-One is doing it, someone should.

 

That someone should be me, because.

There seems to be, a need-in-the-field.

Of Conscious-Awareness.

 

But, if Someone is doing it, then I should first join.

Discover what they think.

 

Responses would be welcomed.

A few, brief, thoughts.

I have been quiet the better part of a week.  Possibly, the best week of my life, in many ways.

Since my previous post, I have been in wheel-chair prescription-limbo.

It’s bizarre.  How strange our worlds?

Become, when insurance enters our lives.

It’s not my control.  It’s shared control.

In order to gain control, I have to learn how insurance companies think.  It’s what I imagine before.

The alien, suddenly, in my dreams.

And this has been possibly the best week of my life, because, for the rest of it, I have only been writing, and meditating on my manuscript. I am now in full book-writing mode.

Beam me up, Spock.

To a heavenly place.

Each day, when I begin to type.

Thoughts.  Not my own.

2014-02-01

Man.  I slept hard last night.  Long and hard.  Woke up in pain.  The whole day was a slog.  Then I ate a couple magic brownies.

San Fernando Valley.  Ocean grown.  Much like a blue dream, in my experience.

Now the ingredients of my snack buoy my thoughts.  And I must say, what a wonderful day!

Medical marijuana lets me write, on days I wouldn’t without it.

So.  In a sense.  Cannabis enhances my productivity.

Productivity is not service.

To The Man.

Productivity is the essence of living.

Artistic expression counts.

One.  Two.  No?

2014-01-30

The girl behind the counter just yelled energetically.  “I’ve got a yummy, yummy mango smoothie.”

A couple days ago, I read Found Poem — Tribute to Pete Seeger, composed of his songs and lyrics by Shawn Bird.  The poem was moving, and enlightening.

I was moved to leave a comment, and enlighten my ignorance.

Not sure on the exact meaning of a found poem, I looked it up.

Makes me wonder.  Is yummy, yummy mango smoothie an example of poetry found?

Perhaps when sung to the woman who paid.