echo in incipience;

And despite the many great faults of others, which are

plentiful over the long expanse of time (and chiefly my

own, and my own lately), I’m fairly okay.  At least today,

which is really all you can hope for, no?  And then you

pray for the repeater, like skipping rope while you jog—

each smack of the links on the concrete a reminder that

a day is rounding again, and up for another backhand.

And the direction is forward, ever forward, until pace can

phase out all of its tricks.  I guess this should have been

the Ode de ’24 since I’m feeling, if ever so slightly,

optimistic about the personal world in which I find

myself participant.  Today, at least.


If there’s anything noteworthy about happiness, it’s

that it’s always there, somewhere, but it gets caught

in poor lighting, accordingly: rearranged, overwhelmed,

stifled into a newly-detailed calculus, sometimes snagged,

like a dick on a zipper.  It has no sides to take (and

certainly not mine), but it will continue to always be the

echo that tunes to the inner-vibratory conditions; needs

to be reread, translated, reaffirmed in all of its

duplications.  Always in incipience.  Maybe I’m wrong

about that.  Maybe I’m underselling that which I’m not

privy to.  I’m not sure, but I do hope all are well in a

way that makes these days tolerable.  Or I hope it gets

there for us all, or can be seen that way soon enough.


It feels childish, these forms of training.  In many

moments I feel host & guest to naught, and that my

actions are the byproduct of two-dimensional thinking.

I truly think I’m working on it with every bit of poetry,

prose, and through every journal entry; giving pavement

to progress.  And I sincerely hope that I can transition

from merely complaining, or giving a courier envelope

to discontent, to talking more openly about experiencing

how beautiful the world actually is.


But I’m okay today, expecting heavy snow here in the

Chicagoland.  Shovels are ready and vehicle is hid.  I’m

ready to be buried in this, and I’m ready to watch the

dog up to her belly in however many inches of powder

we end up getting throughout the night.  It’ll be fine,

all of this will be fine, until I’m ready to be buried.

on time

Once it’s here it’s marked for change

Like the people nearby, all

Slow in their suits

Slowing down, in stead, to take small

Sizable bites of their fruits


And spending what they have ahead,

As if looking for time

To take one’s hold, take them captive.

Once it was here, it chased a line

Out to the ocean; it was being adaptive


At catching the sun, the big white dancer,

Around the room, around the town

Beating the light to where it intends to be—

On the wall, around the world, down

To the shipyard and gulf to the machines on the sea.


It supplies the forward while we enable the back.

Turns out it never left, it just needed to be rediscovered & stacked.

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